Thursday, September 16, 2010
30 years old and 1 day, woke up so tired I actually didn't know what to do with myself.
The Brit had taken me up to one of London's tallest buildings near Tottenham Court Road, where a restaurant on the 32nd floor showed 360 degree views of the city.
I had the truffle risotto and coddled hen's egg with morteau sausage.
We both drank the Chianti.
I was a happy little poenjayjay, that is until I woke up.
Maybe it was the double benders of the weekend and the late night on Tuesday. Either way, I am suffering from sleep deprivation of monolithic proportions. I woke up retarded.
I almost fell asleep during a meeting (and was so brain dead I can't tell you what the meeting was about, except that it was important), I was falling over things, couldn't construct proper sentences, and by the time 6pm home-time rolled around I nearly burst into tears at Victoria Station.
The Brit was with me, and bless him, took me home and tucked me into bed. Where I slept pretty much until now.
I remember him vaguely asking whether I liked tomatoes (?).
Brit: I was thinking...do you like tomatoes?
Peas: We ate tomatoes together yesterday.
Brit: Well I know you hate gooey, slimy eggs, so thought maybe the middle of the tomato would freak you out too.
Peas: No. It's really ok.
I know I get tirder quicker these days, and I need more sleep than ever before, but I've always been a prolific sleeper.
Next to sex and Camembert, sleep is one of the most amazing things in the world. I need a lot of it in order to function. Most people need 8 hours, for me, optimal is 9 hours.
Except I don't have the time to actually have 9 hours of sleep anymore. I can barely get 8 at the moment.
And as a result, shit falls apart a lot quicker.
So I've decided to forego being diligent and getting into work an hour early anymore. I'm going to instead, sleep. And come in at the usual time.
Frankly, I need a fucking lie-in.