Friday 23rd March
And of course I am in the fortunate position of being able to do just that, but try as I might I am always up by seven. Even when feeling poorly, with a sore throat, a runny nose, or just that seasonal depression that comes on one in the winter, when you look out over grey misty dirty looking skies, and the rooftops opposite are wet and the slates greasy looking, and the lovely London skyline looks smudgy and unwashed, I haul myself out of bed and downstairs I plod. My hand goes out automatically for the switch on the kettle, and stifling a yawn I reach in the cupboard for a cup, and like a blind man the familiarity of the tea jar is soon under my hand as I feel the drug under my fumbling fingers, and drop the life-giving tea bag into the mug. No matter how I try, and I have believe me, I just cannot lie in bed. I feel so self-conscious just laying there. I try shutting my eyes, but cannot return to sleep when I know the accusatory alarm clock is there watching my every attempt at slumber. Does this come from years of work, no, I think not; it is somehow innate in me.
There are several ways you can divide people up, and one is that some are early birds while others are night owls. Edward strangely was more of the latter; he had no difficulty in dozing in bed until past ten at the weekends, and always affected surprise that I had been up for hours already, and had the dishwasher and the washing machine loaded and running, and often a small pile of neatly ironed clothes beside me, while had had been fast asleep. Conversely of course, I get that sleepy feeling coming over me as soon as the loud triumphant music of the Ten O’Clock news starts, often being fast asleep on the sofa by the time Hugh Edwards has finished reading the first item. I seem to have a natural watershed between 9.45 and a quarter past ten. If I can get over this hurdle I am fine, if something distracts me and I am still awake at half past ten I get a second wind and am wide awake again until twelve. But even on those rare occasions when in company or after a concert I am not in bed until one in the morning, as soon as the hands of the clock reach six-thirty, there I am itching to get out of bed and start the day. So even though weary and tired, some days I feel like staying in bed, there I am, up with the larks as usual. It is only when I have finished my tea, and surveyed the Breakfast news do I question my irrationality.