There comes a time in everyman’s life when he needs to face up to a few hard truths.
One can’t go toddling along down the primrose path without reaching a little cul-de-sac now and again, and I find that yours truly is certainly at the point of having to make a detour or two.
In the midst of my youthful vitality I looked upon the concepts of “naps” as evidence of guaranteed decrepitude and prided myself on my capacity to trip the light fantastic ’til dawn and then beetle off to the old Alma Mater with not a blear in my eye.
Now the blear seems, more often than not, the natural state of the old orbs and midnight seems to be something that I know exists but cannot prove the existence of, so soundly conked-out am I.
I already knew the signs were there…drifting off in the midst of the most thrilling parts of late night features, or regularly concussing myself in bed with the improving novels I make it a point of reading. Thankfully my failing eyesight requires me to hold the book so close that the height from which they fall does no permanent damage, but I do wonder if the bindings of “Humphrey Clinker” or “She Stoops to Conquer” will ever be the same.
Daytime, I believed, was for relishing. If you don’t keep the knees well up, you have wasted the little time allotted to ye, and plus, you might sleep until night time and wake up not knowing if you are Arthur or Martha.
But I have succumbed at last.
Today I napped.
It was not intentional. I merely went to lol about on my sofa to watch an important documentary “20 minutes of people falling down in stupid ways” on Youtube. Suddenly it was five o’clock!
“Quel horreur!” thought I, as I struggled to restart the grey matter.
I quickly sucked down a mug of the old black stuff and suddenly discovered that I felt oddly refreshed.
“What is this miracle?” I asked myself, suddenly feeling the desire to weed the entire backyard, so filled with vim and vigour was I.
I have to face the facts. I have reached the point in my life where the little cul-de-sac I need is a nap, and I don’t care who knows it.
So, I toss away the last remnants of my halcyon days and accept that if you feel like a few “Zs” then you should jolly well take them.
Luckily the sun was falling by this point so I did not do the gardening but felt sufficiently perky as to pen this little piece extolling the virtues of a quick trip into the arms of Morpheus and feel sufficiently awake to enjoy the most recent episode of that most informative of documentaries, “Ghost Adventures” of which I see is now available for delectation on You Tube.