I have always hated getting up in the morning. Always! I can do it – and I’m actually quite adept at it but … I hate it! Why is that? Why is it that some people are just, naturally, early risers? Early to bed, early to rise? I am the complete opposite, forever a night owl, craving the peace and solace at the end of the day: nowhere to be, nowhere to go, just delaying tomorrow … Therein lies the rub – delaying tomorrow. I used to do that on school nights, savouring every moment of the evening – particularly Sundays – believing that I could pause time. If only.
Nothing has changed, all these decades later; moreover, both my children are exactly the same – night owls. Together, we are a sleep disaster! Determined not to leave the party but, inevitably, nursing ‘the hangover’ of dawn. My eternal timeclock is certainly not helping me now as early mornings constantly beckon. Yes, I do ‘a Becca’ and fall asleep on the couch about 9pm but I have also been known, recently, to hit the sheets by 11.30pm! The fact that I read – or, ashamedly, scroll Instagram – until the early hours serves only to negate my good work. Too late. A lost cause.
Why, though? Is one’s body clock borne of habit? I don’t think so. As I said, I believe I was ‘arrived’ this way. So, is it something to do with one’s brain – left side/right side – or, perhaps, something to do with astrology and the time of one’s birth? The moon? Who knows. Does that require a question mark? My laptop seems to think so but, in this context, it is a statement rather than a question. Ignore.
Which brings me on to another reason why I abhor an early morning call – I have an aversion to being told what to do. Now, there’s a surprise. Remember that little girl who, aged four, picked up her chair, at Sunday School, and moved it to her position of choice? I sound like a little brat? Not so, I promise. A lovely little girl, by all accounts; one who always had her own mind but was polite and respectful with it. Let’s face it, the perfect child! Age does exaggerate character traits, however – certainly if my mother was anything to go by – and I am inclined to concede that I have become increasingly stubborn. Relevance? I prefer to choose when I rise rather than be rudely awakened by an alarm. If one is asleep, one’s body obviously needs it! Once upon a time, I used to set my phone alarm – never accuse me of not moving with the times – to half-an-hour before I had to get up. I could build up to it – and that worked. Not anymore. Now, I set it – at thirty minute intervals – an hour before; sometimes an hour and a half. For an intelligent person, the irony is glaring: waken earlier to snooze longer. Brilliant!
People. So not a fan of the human race! Individuals, yes, but, collectively, no. Having said that, I suppose it depends where one goes. Take the occasion of our going to see Tosca in Rome. Becca had booked it for my birthday, several years ago now, and it is something I shall never forget. How lucky was I? In everyday Rome, the Italians appear to wear a uniform of sorts – mainly black and leather – but not at the opera! As we stood at the bar, pre-performance, we were surrounded by elegance; the ladies, an array of jewelled colour – lots of linen – immaculately presented as they sipped their drinks; the gentlemen, chivalrous in their expensive suits and blazers. Like stepping into another world. Sadly, the same can no longer be said of The Ritz, London whose decor, however, stoically remains that of old-world charm. Long may it be so.
People. Oh, Oh, people! A warning apt for St Andrews in 2025. Who would have thought? Put it this way, never – NEVER – let me be seen dead wearing a rucksack; worse, the rucksack/trainers combo! Practical, they may be, but hideous supersedes practical in every way. Hideous. Moreover, the hideous rucksack doubles as a weapon of mass destruction! How many times have I narrowly escaped serious injury when penned into a ‘Ryanair’ bus between plane and terminal? These tree-hugging rucksack lovers are completely oblivious as to whom is being taken out behind them. Not a clue; not a care. What sort of person wears one of these hideous appendages? Put it this way, never seen one at Wimbledon!
The thing is, on the street, it seems standards have been binned in favour of comfort and practicality. No! Feel free to wear joggers – or lycra – and trainers at home or, here’s a thought, at the gym?! Why, today, is it supposedly acceptable to wear leisure gear everywhere? There is no pride – but we knew that. In truth, to people-watch on the streets of this ancient town – one worthy of respect – is to despair. This is no Blackpool! The locals have all gone, deposed by the gluttony of students – LIKE, half of America is here – and golfers. There are plenty of Scottish accents to be heard at the weekends – particularly of the holiday variety – most from The West and all with holiday homes or timeshares plus the huge 4X4 with blacked-out windows – Oh, and the toy dog on an extendable lead! Picture throngs of cloned Lorraine Kellys … and breathe!
Oh, Oh! People – and their dogs! Why? If I had ever attempted to drag Wilbur round the crowded pavements, he would have lain down and glued himself to the ground in protest – metaphorically speaking! We took him to the beach – a wide open space, perfect for dogs – after which, tired, he was happy to sleep in the car for a bit, or people-watch (our dog), enabling us to pop into town. He was a proper dog, though, not an accessory or a surrogate child who cannot be left. Today, these toy dogs – or ‘poos’ of multiple descriptions – with collars now replaced by these multi-coloured ‘baby’ harnesses which seem to be trending, walk the pavements, ‘freely’, on their extendable leads, lifting their legs wherever they choose, untrained and a hazard to all other pavement users. Worse, how many are pushed in prams?! Is it any wonder there’s a major obesity problem in this country? Dogs – like their owners – need exercise. They have four legs for the purpose of walking and running, even, not for shopping on a Saturday afternoon or going for a coffee and a cake in Greggs. I love dogs – not toy ones – but man’s best friend is a dog, not a child. He needs food, exercise and lots of TLC, not a stroll in the pram or a Saturday afternoon at the shops!
If I go in search of a suitable clearing, will I find a spaceship waiting to transport me back to Planet Half-a-Brain? Pretty please?! My research, here, is complete. All signs of intelligent life are gone …
‘Normality is a paved road: it’s comfortable to walk but no flowers grow.’
Vincent Van Gogh
This is Trish, signing off.
