Tripping the night slapdashtic

I've not been sleeping well lately.

It's not really a case of insomnia with its hours of desperate staring at the ceiling begging for the sandman to come and do his stuff. Been there, done that, it's not the same. Nor is it anxiety-induced (at least, no more than the usual existential angst).

It's just a sort of irritating low-grade sleep where you're nearly unconscious but aware of every single bloody thing around you - taps dripping, flies buzzing, clocks ticking, Other Half snoring - where your head is spinning, but your body is paralysed by laziness.

I literally spend hours like that, asleep but not asleep, thinking murderous thoughts about my dearly beloved softly grunting in oblivious slumber next to me.

All the while, I'm telling myself relaxing calming thoughts, repeating "Ommm" over and over again, and trying to imagine myself a pebble on Brighton beach as the tide gently washes over me. Unfortunately, the only result is that a sea-bashed tar-covered pebble gets thrown into the melee of thoughts swirling around my head.

Not exactly the desired result.

Sometimes, I go with it in the hope that this strange semi-conscious state will bring forth something marvellous and creative. And indeed, as I am lying there, I compose entire monologues filled with wit and insight, the like of which the world has never seen (or heard I suppose) before. I have even come up with proposals for a a couple of TV series that seemed brilliant at the time (one of the Miss Marple genre centred around the elderly genteel curator of a Cathedral tentatively named 'Other Tales form the Crypt' - and the other featuring a rock band that travels from summer festival to festival in a pirate ship. Hmmmm).

Problem is I can't be arsed to get up and capture those thoughts on paper, so either the ideas in their entirety - or at least whatever it was that made them seem so inspired - are lost.

The other night I had an entire routine composed (complete with delivery technique and ad libs - if you can plan ad libs). And it was brilliant. It was funny. It was original. It was even intelligent.

Come morning, the only thing that was left was something about walnuts on a string.

Your guess is as good as mine....