When your inner bitch is roaring. No matter how hard and fast you try and keep her down and channel that rage into something productive, the dragon is out of the cave and everyone around you is going to take a hammering. The bitch is back.
Maybe you have an elegant bladder that waits maybe an hour or so before politely informing you (no rush) that you need to pee again? Or maybe you are too familiar with the double pee/triple pee within minutes stand-off, and spend most of your data having to Google the nearest loo?
The winning combination of insomnia and acute anxiety. Too many sleepless nights. Too much thrashing around worrying about ending up like Maggie Smith in The Lady in the Van. The thought of having to get up, co-ordinate clothes and pretend to be a functional member of society leaves you feeling sleepicidal.
The horror of losing your thread. You are in a meeting, trying to impress and so you are building an argument and…and…and… Oh God. It’s the permanent theft of information that skids across your brain like Road Runner. We are all damned.
You have an hour. AN HOUR. Will anyone know if you sleep the sleep of the dead for the next sixty minutes? Grab that napportunity by the balls.
Angry. Showing off. Frustrated. Can’t find a parking space and it’s raining like a bastard. Whateverthefuckever – this constant stream of swear words that you have no control over feels fucking fantastic. You are painting the air technicoloured with your appalling language and it is really, really, helping.
You haven’t worn these trousers for ages – the ones that were crouching like Gollum in your wardrobe, shoved to the back, practically in Narnia. You just put them on again – they’re exactly what you need to wear. Better, even. This is the unexpected £20 in your coat pocket. What a boon.
When you’ve self-medicated with coffee and are now feeling invincible. Wild-eyed and hyper-alert invincible. All-conquering and slightly headachy but invincible. OK, just dangerous and possibly to be avoided.