I don’t know about you, but I’m certainly one. A coronasomniac.
That’s what they’re calling us peer souls whose sleeping patterns have gone skite during lockdown. The tossers and turners into the wee sma’ hoors, heids churnin’ with every doomsday scenario going; family, finances, health, hoose, you name it. What a nightmare when you actually long for a nightmare.
According to boffins, Sleepless in Scotland victims have rocketed since the pandemic struck, because our regular routines are toast. Truly mince-and-tattied. Add ongoing uncertainty about jobs, education, holidays, and oor tightly strung nerves are twanging like Clapton’s guitar.
We can’t de-stress with our mates over a plonko or beer. Tempers are short. And blessed sleep, which “knits the ravelled sleeve of care”, is increasingly illusive.
I’ve only suffered occasional, short-lived insomnia. Once in my scratcher about midnight, a few pages of my book would see me happily sparko. However, since the start of our Covid crisis, I’ve been a stranger to sleep. All my own fault.
Last year, as the lockdown first gripped, when I knew I’d be in isolation for ages, I took to going later and later to bed, binge-watching telly series because I didn’t have to be up for anything in the morning. Hey presto, it could be 3am before I turned oot the lights. Feel gype. Then, still wide awake, I’d switch on a radio phone-in, getting masellie all hot, bothered and utterly slumber-free listening to dipsticks chuntering on about us all being brainwashed by aliens about to scoop us up to Planet Zog.
But Planet Zzzz was still light years away. Then there’s the mannie on LBC at 4am who’s obsessed with food; fantasising about all the fine things he’s going to eat in the morning, like sausages and hash browns, or scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. Now that’s a sure-fire wake-up call for me. Suddenly I’m trying to remember what I’ve got in the fridge. Any leftover curry, even? And damnt-near tempted to rustle up something savoury on the spot. OK, true confessions. There have been a pucklie times I couldn’t resist temptation and wolfed a cheese toastie about 4.30. Then lie doon and fret aboot being such a glakit gorger. Might nod off about 5am.
As a result of my nocturnal shenanigans, if I sit down after lunch, pronto I’m zonko. A power-nap? Nuh.
A major dozer lasting maybe 90 minutes, leaving me well-refreshed for my post-midnight telly binge. Fit a neep.
It gets worse. The elephant in the bedroom. Once tucked up and lugged into the radio, I’ve started going on to Facebook to see fit’s afoot. Friends query why I’m “liking” posts, or writing comments, during the wee smas.
Nippy bum in case my neighbours overhear my night-time proclivities. I know, I know that mobile phone light is a brain-stimulant. But I’m addicted to my affa Covid routine.
So, to onybody oot there with my affliction and your phone pings aboot 4am, it’ll be me!
Will we get sun, sand, sea and hot mariners?
EEEHA! Is life really, slowly getting back to normal? Me and my mates have already booked some lunches for May, when the restaurant ban lifts and we can indulge in great goss over our favourite battered haddock or beef Strog. Canna wait, but just hope the weather warms up so we won’t have to be swathed in blankets when we’re in the outside marquees. Not the best look for glam ower-70s.
Eatooteries and drinkeries aboot the Neest have been making major changes to their properties, so good on them and the best of luck to all businesses over the coming months.
Everywhere I look, heids are shorn, colours redone thanks to hairdressers being able to chop again. But there remains the huge uncertainty of holidays. Will we have to carry a vaccine passport to get out of the country?
Like loadsa folk, I’m watching every day for that blue envelope telling me about my second jab. Told at the Teca it would be in May, but – you know me – always glass half-empty. And I won’t fully heave a sigh of relief until my kids get their call.
In the meantime, no way Jose would I even open a holiday brochure just now. Too many imponderables.
But when I do, I’ll be looking for that dream hotel with a balcony looking over a marina; superb food in the restaurant and lively bars. And maybe an ancient but very rich mariner nearby…
Give Charles the chance to reign at last
Sad to see a groundswell of opinion among younger folk who would rather see Prince William ascend to the throne after Her Majesty instead of his father, Prince Charles.
Maybe it’s understandable they favour a sovereign who is closest to their age. However, Charles has been heir to the throne since his mother became Queen in 1952, when he was three.
How would any of us put up with waiting for the top job until we were into our 70s and beyond? All his life has been shaped by this future ultimate duty – whether he wished it or not. To deny his kingship is cruel and unthinkable.
This article originally appeared on the Evening Express website. For more information, read about our new combined website.
