We spend our lives longing for bed. Waking up in the morning and thinking, ‘I can’t wait to go to bed tonight.’ Having a pre-work shower and then sitting, wrapped in a towel, staring at the wall, thinking, ‘I can’t wait to go to bed tonight.’ Going low-level comatose mid-afternoon and thinking, ‘I probably need a biscuit and is it nearly bedtime?’ And then bed. Finally. Between nine and ten, probably fully dressed. Falling asleep with the light on. Drowsily dropping your book so that it lands painfully on your face. Turning your phone off for good sleep hygiene and then turning it on again because what if somebody dies? Bed. Bed is a big thing.
So what happens when you are so tired, so weary, so over-stretched and sleep-deprived that you lose the will to go to bed. You come home from a party, perhaps; a party that you dragged yourself to, a party where you clock-watched from 9:15 because… bed. You get home and… you just can’t face it. You are too tired and wired for bed. You cannot risk cursing your bed (having dipped a whole leg in the insomnia waters) with this odd exhausted restlessness. And so you potter. You might have an inadvisable drink or a fag out the kitchen window. You might watch some telly or sort out a drawer. You are so tired that your autopilot has grabbed the joystick and taken the upper hand. You are so tired that you’ve forgotten that bed is at the centre of your universe. You are so tired that you have been – temporarily – released from the tyranny of bed. It’s kind of amazing. Until the morning.