In the heat of the morning

Chuh. More like in the wee small hours of the morning.

My goodness but I loathe that song. Oh it's pleasant enough to listen to if it's Frank Sinatra singing it. Old blue eyes himself but the lyrics, ugh. In the wee small hours of the morning whilst the whole wide world is fast asleep. Well Frank, darling that's just silly isn't it? For a start only a small portion of the world could conceivably be asleep whilst you are asleep because of different time zones and that's not even taking into consideration the perils of working shifts or perhaps having an infant attached to one of your wangers going chomp chomp chomp. And insomniacs would probably feel quite resentful of the saccharine melodrama of lying awake and thinking about the girl and never ever thinking of counting sheep. I mean if you're lying awake thinking about a girl that's possibly a temporary thing, insomniacs spend years not being able to sleep for any conceivable reason because if of course there's a tangible reason there's probably a solution n'est-ce pas?

And I don't buy the insistence that "you'd be hers if only she would call" - I mean good god if you're lying awake all night with your heart all sopping wet like that and haven't thought to just call her then quite frankly you deserve to be awake. Unless perhaps there's an explanation for that too, like that you are on a pay-as-you-go mobile tariff and have run out of credit. But then is that really anything to loose sleep over?
And am I quite certain that I have spelled tariff correctly? Or is it perhaps tarrif? No that doesn't seem quite comfortable.

Oh for heavens sake who cares.

So it's approaching the hour of 3 in the morning in the UK (if you must, do take this opportunity to work out what time it was for you when I wrote this and let me know if you should have been sleeping too. Perhaps you were capable of sleep but chose not to indulge in said activity, chose instead to break with convention and have a lovely shag instead. Or eat ice-cream. Or ponder the correct spelling of tariff. Do let me know won't you?) and I am, as you may have gathered not asleep.

I'm not terribly happy about that, especially as I am not having a lovely shag, or eating ice-cream and I couldn't give a hairy fuck how to spell tariff. I am instead quite deliriously bad tempered about being awake, though as ever am trying to see the positive, the non-fuzzy end of the lollipop (*winks at Laura*, no not THAT Laura, the other Laura - the one that looks just like her but is not her. I'm very excited about them meeting at my wedding. I want a picture of them together and I will caption it "separated at birth?" and pretend to be oh so witty and then hope that it doesn't make either of them terribly paranoid about their lineage), the silver lining, the rainbow's end. (Quite frankly in my humble opinion rainbows should never, ever end. What an intolerable idea)

Where was I? Oh yes.

The positive of being not asleep, of this flagrant display of vulgar consciousness is that I am here writing, something I just never get time to do. I have been given the gift of time.

And tomorrow I shall see that said time has marched across my face and installed itself in the cosy cocoon of the gigantic eyebags that I shall be sporting. And oh dear lord I don't think that I have even moisturised my face since Friday morning. Gracious good lord.

I deserve to have eyebags. I shall probably even wake up with a moustache.

Speaking of Our Lord Bowie it was his birthday on Sunday, which was yesterday though given that I have not as yet broken the day up with sleep I am going to stubbornly refer to as today. Because I can - you are all asleep and no one is here to correct me.

I celebrated his birthday twice actually. On Friday in a fit of typical idiocy I was quite convinced that it was the 8th but then learned after wishing my idol a happy birthday that it was in fact the 6th.
Not that I wished him to his face. Such an honour would overwhelm me to the point of unconsciousness that would put a coma victim to shame. Do coma victims feel shame?
Do they in fact feel anything? Which makes me recall that ghastly joke about a man visiting his wife in a coma and somehow being advised by her doctor (all doctors are perverts eh Laura? Yes you this time - not the other one) to engage in oral sex.
And then kills his poor wife by choking her with his penis. I don't know what is more idiotic - the strange fellow not realising that the point was to give her oral sex (because when will men ever grasp this concept?) or the strange fellow listening to the perverted doctor.
If I am ever in a coma, I would suggest a bikini wax - I sure as hell don't sleep through those.

Oh why oh why am I awake?
This is not a rhetorical question, I am genuinely interested in the answer.
Not that there is anyone awake to give me one, or indeed answer the question. Fnar fnar.

Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.

Title: In The Heat of The Morning by David Bowie