But I had my own Kafkaesque nightmare on Saturday. Having offered to meet the glorious Diane Torr, who never travels light, from London's Charing Cross station and help with one of her rucksacks, I awoke to find that someone had hit me over the head with a sledgehammer.
I just managed to call and give her an alternative travel plan then fell back to sleep. Next time I woke she was leaning on my door bell around lunchtime, poor thing. We were so looking forward to seeing each other and going to Broadway Market, the Tracey Emin show at the Hayward Gallery and more. So at this point I just managed a cup of tea and to suggest she get in touch with some other chums before I was feverishly back in bed with another whack from the hammer. The arms of Morpheus didn't feel so sweet any more.
Next I am aware that Radio 4's been blaring into my locked-in syndrome for bloody hours and I fumble beside the bed to turn it down. It must be dawn and how on earth has Diane managed to sleep through this din? It's horrible. It's so complicated the news, everything's happening at once, it's complicated, it's loud, it's complicated, it's horrible.. aarrrrrrggggggh. I claw myself out of bed, stagger on to the landing. Diane's bedroom is empty oh my god! Why didn't she come back last night? Jesus is she OK? I'm shaky but I go downstairs for a drink. It's 7 o'clock and I slump into a chair staring vacantly at the clock. Then I feel a lurking sense of terror. The sky isn't getting any lighter.
It's getting darker.
And darker. I don't understand!
Well yes, it finally dawns on me that I haven't even had a good night's shuteye. I call D and she's on her way home. 'I tried to rouse you from your sleeping beautyhood but you just wouldn't wake up. After a while I decided to go out. Do you need any supper?'
* * *
One good thing. I seem to have got rid of my writer's block but who knows? I at least hope I'm back soon.
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