I can’t believe it when the alarm clock goes off. There is no way my night’s sleep can be over already – but it is.
When foxing season arrives, it brings with it the realisation that I’ll be walking the beat again. I remember an occasion when my five colleagues and I met up early and set off without delay, knowing we had a tiring and full day in front of us.
In the days of yore, it was my destiny – or so it appeared – to chat up vegetarians at parties. Oblivious, I would apply the time-honoured mix of smarm and Babycham. Time and again, my lager-fuelled efforts would prove futile.
On 15 April each year, I start to lose those few marbles I still possess. I go into rooms and forget what I went in for. I get tongue-tied and spout gibberish. It’s all down to sleep deprivation and the anti-social hours these floody boxes keep.