This morning, due to my having been on the go for something like 26/27 hours with no sleep, eventually crashing at around five pm yesterday and Logging out, switching off, hitting the sack, dead, gone, totally zonked, At precisely five o'clock this morning, five 'til five, twelve hours, well that ain't bad, I was up and firing on all pots, tippy-toeing around the house downstairs while 'er indoors snored er ephing head off, I mean got her beauty sleep bless 'er. :nevreness:
So what's a bloke to do at such an hour on a Sunday morning? Why hit the street of course.
But I'm a country boy, living in a small country town where nothing much ever happens . Certainly not at five o'clock antemeridian on a Sunday.
Well, by six-thirty I'd had enough and so I did, indeed, hit the street. Seven o'clock was drawing ever closer and we were low on milk so what the hell I thought. I could see light shining through a shop-front up ahead of me as I walked along the High Street, a small cafe', that was a surprise. Okay, these guys need to get an early start making ready for the morning trade, but at five am? On a Sunday morning? Who on earth? What trade could she be expecting at that time? Optimistic or what? Maybe she's simply an early riser like me or maybe the shoppers get out early, Church zealots perhaps, surely not, and then, perhaps, some of all three.
Either way it was too early for Costcutters. I would have go into the Tesco Express having sworn never to enter the place ever again, after concerted efforts had been made, culminating in my returning a basket of goods to the shelves and stoutly refusing, to shepherd and coral me into the self-service area. Baa'aa! This old ram was, and shall not, for the foreseeable future, be having any of it. Forget it. It isn't going to happen. No way hosai. End of.
How nice it might be, I sometimes think, to have some kind of, oh I don't know, not "night life" exactly, but just some place to go to early doors. Night people really are, do seem to be, a very different species to normal folks. I don't know why, we just are.
Having gritted my teeth, bitten the bullet and done the unthinkable, with three pinter at hand, passing Mrs. Cafe' proprietor who was now sitting outside her doorway, on the street in a comfy chair sipping from a mug of something hot and puffing on a cigarette. An old man with a walking stick hobbled out of an alleyway, probably an insomniac like me. A young woman in Lycra with a small light strapped to her forehead jogged by on the other side of the road, as I made my way home.