It’s 5 am and I’m awake. In fact, I’ve been awake for about two hours already. On a Saturday.
Most people may be slightly vexed by this reality, but I’ve come to accept that this is just what my body does every now and again. I’ve found that it’s better to just roll with it and do my best to not drop breakables/ walk into stationary objects as the day progresses. I’m clumsy at the best of times, although when sleep deprived, the Rachel Disaster Comedy Show rises to a whole new level of humiliation.
Being awake in the dead of night gives you lots of time to think. While other sleep deprived people are probably considering the meaning of life right now, I’m thinking about this: There are many things that I’m tempted to do in life which I don’t have the guts or inclination to carry out in the full light of day. However, being awake while others are asleep presents the perfect opportunity to fulfil all those unrealised dreams.
I call it the ‘night-bucket’ list.
Here are my top five. I’ve actually already done a couple of these with friends… but I’m not telling you which ones. What would be on your list?
- Go for a run dressed in neon bright 80’s clothing, complete with visor and vile shell suit
- Plant flowers in obscure and run-down places
- Play a game of Frisbee with a glow-in-the dark disc.
- Jump the park gate (without, er, getting stuck at the top and having to be ‘helped’ down by a friend), climb the park hill and wait for the sun to rise over London
But most of all, I’m really tempted to stick this poster up all around town. It’ll either make people laugh or just confuse them entirely. Either way, it’s a win-win.
Lionel: What a legend.
I’m standing in the queue in Starbucks, waiting for my turn with the frappachino and herbal tea requests. I’m here for a meeting. In less than two hours I’ll be at another meeting with an MP – a former Home Office Minister who knows his stuff – and I’m exhausted.
I jolted awake at four this morning from another horrendous nightmare. My job involves thinking about human trafficking and exploitation day in day out and unfortunately this is not without its side effects.
I also have another minor problem on my hands. At 11am this morning I realised there was a small hole in my skirt. Unfortunately this hole is located directly over the butt area. I quite like my bum as it is, but my skirts do have to stretch a little to fit and tend to give way at inconvenient moments – for example, during 11am meetings with lots of men. (This is me we’re talking about – I mean, my skirt was never going to wait for an all-girl slumber party.)
I quickly excused myself from the manly meeting (walking backwards out of the room as normally as possible) and rushed to my colleague, Gemma, to ask for her opinion. Is the hole noticeable? Can I possibly get away with it for a whole 30 minutes in the presence of an esteemed politician? Her contorted expression, trying to hold back a pained smirk, confirmed the answer as a firm NO. Five minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom with a safety pin holding my skirt together. Unfortunately this was not the world’s most sturdy piece of metal and within minutes I had an undone pin protruding out of my bottom, ready to puncture anyone who got too close.
So here I stand in Starbucks – exhausted, slightly traumatised, with a safety pin sticking outta my butt. If I’m looking for a sign that something in my life has got to change, this is it.
Westminster can be a pretty serious place to pass a lunch hour. For four years I’ve worked amidst the determined throng: serious jogging, serious news reporting, serious fast-paced walking westwing-style. GoodRachel blends into the crowd and marches on, looking like I’m heading to an urgent meeting (with a cheese sandwich, but no one needs to know that.) However, buried within me is EvilRachel who, despite the outward appearance of sombre calm, secretly just wants to yab people in the face before breaking into a synchronised zombie dance.