At 6am I was still trying to convince myself that sleep was seconds away. But it wasn't and I didn't. The gentle sound of bird song made me want to reach for a slingshot.
Before London, I had no problems falling asleep. I had slept through all the Harry Potter films. The wobble and hum of trains and cars could not put me off a good nap. No mattress was too springy, no duvet too small. I went through a minor sleep-walking phase when I was 15, when I would shuffle into my parents' bedroom and try to sell them cheese and onion pasties. I rarely snored, but would often wake laughing or with a loud snort. Good nights.
But now, once or twice a week, I join a nightmarish wide-awake club. Nothing works. Watching, reading, cleaning, counting, sighing, crying. Wiggling my toes in bed is the latest thing I've tried. My toes hurt.
To be honest, you can get by on next to no sleep. Yes, I was not feeling too clever today. But my reserve battery kicked in and I ploughed on, albeit hidden behind a pillar in the office. And I'm still standing. Well that's not quite true. I am slumped in my dressing gown, drinking a glass of rioja. And trying not to think about the complicated sleeping process. And why is it called 40 winks, anyway?