Only now, upon this time whilst eating toast, do I realise. The whine of a southern hemisphere voice, gently enveloped in the afternoon drizzle, and I am performing these functions for the first time.
Weeks of phone-call wake-ups, the sustained evenings denying the roll into morning, squinting to avoid the light. And the not eating too, placating the nervous hunger with meals stolen from a friend’s table. I haven’t bought a newspaper for a fortnight.
Yesterday I thought a fruit machine was a man, a man was a sideboard and a joke was an insult. So I made someone go and stand outside in the rain without a jacket and locked the door until I could think again.
So only now, as I rise at two thirty, do I realise that I’m sleeping again.
Not at this exact instant obviously.