About three hours ago, I was drifting pleasantly off to sleep, wrapped cosily around Mrs. Fingers and reflecting on how lucky I was to have a wonderful family, more work than I know what to do with, living in a beautiful little flat in the best part of one of the best cities in Europe, then, all of a sudden, I was wide awake. I don't know whether it's through having lived on time contracts for the last twenty-four years or the fact that, deep down, you can't accept that you've been singled out for the top table, but maybe my subconscious is telling me that it's all been a huge mistake and that soon we're all going to queuing up at that little soup kitchen our neighbouring square hosts every night. It's completely illogical, but since when did common sense play any part in the life of someone who feeds his family by making fleeting sound waves? It's probably all part of a larger existential question: I'm preparing myself to stop smoking, my intake has reduced dramatically already without any discernable effort on my part (thanks, Allen Carr) and I'm looking forward to the day when I'll be free of the urge to walk around with a small fire sticking out my face. Somehow, everything feels to easy, too right, too secure and pleasantly predictable. Sitting in front of my computer screen at 3am, I'm trying to convince myself that I'm the right candidate for this special treatment and I'm determined to succeed.
The other thought that crossees your mind is that you realise you're sitting in your dressing gown in the middle of the night, writing a complete load of bollocks just so that you can go back to bed, stop navel-gazing and get on with life like any other normal person.