Two kinds of individuals populate this earth. Some effortlessly fall into a peaceful slumber, the moment their heads meet their pillows, their sleep so tranquil you can almost see the cartoon “zzzzzzs” floating above them. Then there are others who confront the intense solitude of the human existence at the ungodly hour of 3am, staying wide awake despite their best efforts. In the typical course of life, such people often find themselves sharing their lives — and beds — with someone from the former category.
This inevitably leads to a scenario where one person is brewing coffee in the morning, a thousand-yard stare revealing the existential battles they fought through the dark night. Meanwhile, their partner, who enjoyed almost eight hours of undisturbed sleep, groggily complains of feeling tired, blaming it on the book light that was kept on while their significant other was trying to read War and Peace to lull themselves back to sleep.
This is why I found myself seeking solace in audiobooks. Listening to a narrated story helps to distract my overly active internal chatter, while simultaneously drowning out my partner’s nightly sinus symphony. Choosing the right book was a challenge though. It needed to be mundane enough to lull me into unconsciousness, yet stimulating enough so that I wouldn’t stop listening and inadvertently shift back to my own thoughts. Due to the idiosyncrasies of my brain, I often find it challenging not to focus on the intriguing aspects of even the most dull subjects.
That’s why the BBC’s Shipping Forecast, a soothing maritime lullaby beloved by insomniacs for years, is ineffective for me. I am immediately drawn to understand why North Utsire and South Utsire are noted as north seven to gale nine decreasing 7 to 5, squalls moderate. Even the slightest whistle in a presenter’s voice, accentuated by their sharply enunciated British consonants, sends me spiralling down a rabbit hole on Google Images, probing into the causes behind the nasal whistle, such as a deviated septum or straying hairs. Some wake up perturbed after a night spent in the company of a stranger; but my nocturnal diversions, awaking to find a phone clutched in my hand and my Google search history tarnished with phrases like “BBC Radio presenter close-up photo nostrils”, are decidedly less conventional.
Sleep hasn’t graced me for more than five hours a night since November. This is where the British royalty come into the narrative.
My mind has a tendency to become more active rather than quieten at night. It fondly recalls times from as far back as primary school when I mistakenly referred to my teacher as Mum. One particular night, I stumbled upon an audiobook about Princess Diana. Something about the speaker’s voice and the familiarity of the story – and also the oversight of not cancelling my Audible subscription – led me to that book.
To my surprise, it served its purpose – to some extent. I found myself drifting to sleep an hour earlier than my usual bedtime at 4am. Listening to the intriguing details about earls, fox hunting, and the constraints and perks of being a royal highness provided a comforting distraction from my commoner life routine.
In no time, however, I realised my newfound sleep aid was a double-edged sword. Princess Di’s story led me to another book and then another one; I was inadvertently widening my knowledge. Sleep-deprived and inattentive, I started sharing royal facts with my loved one, particularly about Georgia vi’s Investiture ceremony.
My days became haphazard. I wandered aimlessly through Lidl forgetting my shopping list. In between making online orders for more under-eye concealer, I couldn’t help asking, “Are you aware of who profits from the Duchies of Lancaster?” or making remarks like, “Princess Margaret desired Swan Lake to be played at her funeral.” My Google searches were dominated by topics like melatonin safety dosage, even tailored for tall individuals.
Fast forward to today, I’m prohibited from discussing the royals and suffer sleepless nights alone in a separate bed. Strangely, I quite like it, even if I see a similar pattern to my grandmother who also had a separate room and a stubborn affection for Lady Di.
Sleeping pills are rightly restricted and sparingly recommended by medical professionals. I’ve tried every single sleep hack – meditation, blue light glasses, caffeine restrictions – suggested by those who aren’t victims of insomnia. Yet, despite all attempts, late-night consciousness persists, and my mind continues to bring up my childhood blunders, reminding me of when I called my grade 4 teacher Mum.
If I had my druthers, I’d fully embrace my innate night owl proclivities. Accomplishing tasks at 2 in the morning, enjoying a round of squash at 3. Making use of my peak alertness. However, for some unfathomable reason, the early bird brigade has managed to seize control. You recognize them, those individuals who crave extra accolades for completing a task at 6am, even when it would’ve been just as practicable to tackle it later in the day. Until such time we can topple their reign and the conventional 9-5 work schedule, we’re destined to be regaled with anecdotes about Prince Philip’s time in the navy.