I seem to have completely forgotten the mechanics of going to sleep. My physical body is currently functioning with the structural integrity of a wet sandbag, but my brain has decided it is high noon and time to run a marathon. Being utterly exhausted but completely wired is a special kind of nocturnal torture, and it usually means I am staring at the ceiling until 2 AM. This is what I call The Insomnia Tax, and it feels like there is no refund. For me, The Insomnia Tax imposes a penalty every restless night.
Since I’m awake, let’s talk about the sheer audacity of modern supermarkets. I had my Asda shop delivered today and decided to get some Halloween sweet multi-packs for my carers. Have you seen the state of these things recently? You practically need to remortgage your house to buy a bag, and when you finally open it, the actual chocolates are microscopic. Don’t even get me started on Cadbury. They are the absolute worst offenders in the shrinkflation game. I’m paying premium prices for a fun-size bar that is now genuinely the size of a postage stamp. It’s not a treat; it’s a choking hazard. All this, like dealing with supermarkets, sometimes feels as thankless as taxes on insomnia itself.
Reading
But I digress. On a much lighter, slightly weirder note, I have established a new evening routine in the flat. Every night at 9:30 PM, I read aloud to Mojo and Blobette. We are currently working our way through The War of the Worlds. Apparently, H.G. Wells’ tale of Martian destruction is incredibly soothing if you have feathers. They sit there on their perches, puff up into little round spheres of absolute contentment, and practically fall asleep listening to the carnage. It’s working wonders—they are noticeably less skittish around me now that we have our evening story time. Even the birds don’t have to pay what I call an insomnia tax, it seems.
I also have a daylight lamp sitting in its box ready to be installed for them, so they still get enough rays as the dark winter days draw in. I haven’t quite mustered the energy to wrestle with extension cables and timers yet, but it’s on the agenda. It’s genuinely nice to end the week with a positive little project waiting in the wings. Meanwhile, that unique penalty called insomnia tax is lurking, waiting for me at bedtime.
Since The War of the Worlds is almost finished, I need your help.
What are some good, relatively short books I can read to the birds next? They seem to enjoy classic literature and alien invasions, but I’m open to suggestions.
P.S. A massive thank you and welcome to all the new subscribers who have joined recently. It is lovely to have you here in our weird little corner of the internet.