So thats it, a long day, lots done, nice things to eat, good telly. Perfectly ready for the sleepings. A quick flick through the very comforting National Geographic and lights off to muse over vague thoughts of the problems with the oil sands of Canada. Just right.
Then, “wouldn’t it be funny if, in the show, I did this thing with jars and celotape, Indana Jones and islands in the stream. Maybe long hands on stick. Yeah, long hands!”
Fucked. The rest of the night is a cholera fever of Edinburgh madness, all Steve Bennet and portaloos – plastic pints and anxiety - rated in stars.
And the dreadful thing is the older I get this insomnia just gets worse.