Life... With No Breaks (A laugh-out-loud comedy memoir) by Nick Spalding

it? One that once again proves God is a practical joker - the kind that loosens the top of the pepper pot and puts cling-film over the toilet bowl.
    Insomnia is one of those uniquely modern diseases that exist - at least in part - due to the lifestyles we lead.
    Our old enemy the clock has his role to play in the life of the insomniac.
    Having to live according to a schedule that is fundamentally alien to our mental architecture causes no end of problems.
    I’ve laid in bed many times, knowing that the damn alarm clock is going to go off in three hours, and my brain won’t shut down despite the lead weights on my eyelids.
    There is nothing so exquisitely horrid than the sense of frustration you feel at this moment.
    You’re caught in a catch-22.
    You can’t sleep, which makes you frustrated and angry, but you won’t be able to sleep in that mood. No matter how hard you pound the pillow or turn it over to the cool side, sleep will just not come.
    There are commonly two types of insomniacs:
    Those who suffer from early waking syndrome, where you can quite happily pop off to sleep at a reasonable hour, but find yourself snapping awake at four in the morning, with no chance of drifting off again.
    Then there’s the type I suffer from, which is delayed sleep: when no matter what you do, sleep remains a distant fantasy, until you eventually drop into an unsatisfying slumber just as the birds start to sing outside.         
    Sleep tends to occur in cycles of three to four hours and if you don’t complete those cycles, you spend the next day walking around with sandy eyes and a grumpy demeanour.
    I get insomnia when I’m stressed.
    I have an overactive brain - by no means a bad thing all the time, as without it I very much doubt I could be writing this book. But there have been occasions when I’d gladly trade my imagination in for the cool empty serenity of an inactive mind that slips into sleep as easily as a hand slips into a velvet glove.
    It’s not like the stuff my brain occupies itself with at four in the morning is important. It would be ok if I was thinking up stunningly original ideas for books, or working out ways to make my life easier.
    Instead, the silly lump of grey matter ponders such vital problems as:
    ‘How old does someone need to be exactly to die of old age? 60? 70? 80?’
    Or:
    ‘If we didn’t have bottoms, would we need chairs? Or would we stand up all the time? It’d certainly save space in trains, wouldn’t it?’
    Or:
    ‘If the entire government was killed in a freak yachting accident, how long would it be until anyone noticed any difference in the way we live our day to day lives? A day? A month? A Year? Never ?’
     
    These thoughts run around my head, chasing their tails like hyperactive dogs. All the time there’s a part of me screaming at them to just sod off and leave me alone, so I can get to sleep and wake up refreshed - ready to go into work the next day and apologise for shooting a fat sweaty bloke with a paintball gun.
    The moment I dread more than any other is when the first bird starts to sing. I’m convinced the feathery little bastard is just waiting for me to start dropping off before commencing his twittering - letting every other bird in the area know just how tough he is.
    Pretty soon they’re all at it, a collection of strident high-pitched warbling, set at just the right tone to drill into my brain.
    And the little gits never sing the same tune. Oh no .
    It’s always a discordant set of musical phrases overlapping one another, ending up as an incoherent jumble.
    For the sake of variety in the orchestra, a wood pigeon starts a low monotonous hoot that wouldn’t be too bad if it was timed at regular intervals. It’s not though. Just as I think I’ve got the rhythm - a hoot every five seconds or so – he’ll change to once every seven, then every two, then every ten.
    Bastard !
     
    I’ve tried earplugs.
    They either fall out after ten minutes or prod my