I can’t sleep. It’s horrible o’clock in the morning. Everything that can ache is having a pretty good go at doing so. My mind is still racing. I can’t decide whether the most strenuous thing I did today was watch the MotoGP or whisk custard. I didn’t ride. And given that it’s morning, today was yesterday.
I’m not at home. The red-haired Virago is snoring contentedly, occasionally she stirs just enough to smile. I am insanely jealous of her ability to be asleep whenever the opportunity presents itself.
I am not that fortunate.
I have already scoured the usual sources if internet entertainment for novelty, poured over ebay for potential bargains on the spares list, devoured the last third of the book I have been reading for months, contemplated all the things I would do if I had just a little more energy, and resigned myself to the fact that there is likely to be a flurry of creativity until the headache I’m nursing gets in the way, followed by long hours of staring blankly into space or the back of my eyelids, able to do very little, before sleep finally takes me. I will most likely wake up about 6 hours later, feeling little better, but hungry.
When I do wake up feeling non-achey enough to do something, that something will likely be pull my kit on, and ride somewhere. Probably home, via the supermarket, and then sleep some more. Or fail to sleep some more.