ON LIFE’S LITTLE INCIDENTS

I’VE just completed a week of night shifts, and I feel like I’ve been stuck in the twilight zone, knowing it will take me a few days to revert back to normality.

Sadly, I’m not the best at sleeping in the day. My brain is in a constant struggle, as half of it understands the need to sleep, but the other half thinks “Get up, get up. It’s daytime! You’ve so many things to do.”

As soon as my head hits the pillow, the postman will arrive with a delivery or the phone will ring downstairs.

It’s guaranteed to happen every time. Plus despite having a bowl full of food, and an open window to saunter in and out of, the cat turns into a diva, demanding my complete attention.

I’m going to need some time to catch up on all the programmes I’ve missed, I’m at least two days behind with the newspapers, but I’m slowly remembering what day of the week it actually is.

My eating patterns will return to normal, so no more cornflakes at suppertime and a cooked meal at 3am, and I’ll have less caffeine running through my veins in an attempt to keep as alert as possible.

No more worrying about bumping into ghosts and ghoulies as I walk around in the darkness, and I won’t miss the freezing cold brick wall that my body hits at 4am.

Well . . . not for a few weeks anyway, as we take it in turns to do the graveyard shift and my next stint is just around the corner, when the topsyturvy madness and my week of confusion will happen all over again.

So well done to all you workers who do regular nights, I give you a round of applause. It’s certainly not for the fainthearted.