Over the last 20 days what I’ve missed most is at night, and it’s not what you think. It’s sleep. Every day I wake up feeling physically ill from lack of the stuff. They say 80% of pregnant women suffer from insomnia so I’m in good company. I’ve now tried all the pregnancy sleep tricks in the book: the yoga left nostril inhale, the squeeze the toes and relax, the eye roll, pressing between the little indentation between the eyebrows. I’ve tried sleeping pills – before you start tutting remember I’m not actually pregnant – but they only get me to 4am. Having two young children; one of whom has a tendency to wet the bed and the other who possesses a cry that would shatter a breezeblock don’t exactly contribute to the nocturnal peace of the house. Last night was different though. There was something in the air; a drop in pressure, a changing moon, a soporific quality that had me in the land of nod past 3am, 4am, 5am and heading towards the soft lights of dawn and a glorious sleep-in. But at 6am my wife’s alarm went off and I woke up. She’s one of these people who go to bed with the best intentions of an early start and then sleep them away during the night. Then she didn’t just hit the snooze button once (legal), or twice (a civil offence) but 3 times (a criminal offence) and then turned it off and went back to sleep (death penalty). I looked at the fluffy white pillow and then at my wife inhaling and exhaling softly in the deepest most beautiful sleep. Yes, I love you very much but I have to kill you: the law of the alarm clock is the law. I slowly leaned over to pick up the pillow and then Enzo walked in clutching a sodden pair of pyjamas and looking all miserable and distressed. I quickly pretended to be asleep. Mafer got up, calmed him down as only a mother can, washed him and put him back in his bed. I decided that murder was unnecessary this morning and let my wife off with a warning and a big hug.

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