I dutifully woke up and dragged myself to the study before 6am this morning, partly due to having watched a programme on the BBC last night that told me how to sleep / wake better. And one of the things it appeared to argue (I am paraphrasing) was that if you woke in daylight you could trick your brain into feeling like you were more awake than you otherwise felt. The example given on the programme was that of Kate Silverton waking for her morning shift on BBC Breakfast and using a blue-light-thing to feel better. For some reason, the blue light was deemed more effective than, say, the fridge.
I quite like the idea of Ms Silverton and Mr Turnbull sat cross-legged in their jimjams in front of an open fridge, preparing scripts while slowly defrosting. Naturally, they would both be sporting milk moustaches in this scenario. And would rehearse their lines to a shelf full of Actimel pots. But them’s the breaks when you get up at 3.30am.
I thought I could trump the BBC’s blue-light-policy — or their continuing fascination with Dr Who spinoffery — with our East-facing study. Of course, I did not have time to paint the study blue, nor indeed invite any Blue Men over, or even line up the Actimel, but I did have time for a coffee-moustache. It did not feel as effective as a milk-moustache, but it goes better with the colour of the walls.
Sadly, I had ignored the vagaries of British weather. So instead of glorious morning sunshine warming the cockles of my writing-heart, I was instead faced with my state of mind, but outwardly projected. Shit weather, Grommit. Although obviously Wallace would be building a Blue-Light-Optimal-Weather-Confabulator while he said that and I was not.
Or, as Jimmy Osmond might say. Once more with feeling. I got up early. It was cloudy. Both states are sub-optimal. Except for small animals that rely on partial light to offer cover and camouflage. Such as the early bird. Although the early bird, perhaps by dint of this cloud cover, has yet to be filmed for a BBC pseudo-science family-friendly documentary on a suitable accessible subject. Like Peregrinating Passions of the Passerines.
I feel at least a partial refund of the licence fee is in order.
Anyhoo. I was back in God’s Cobbler-land today, editing and adding to Part 2. And it occurred to me that my writing is carbonated. If I wait long enough, a new bubble of an idea will appear, and it is up to me to either catch it — to tease and guide and help it join up with other bubbles into one big fictional uber-bubble (perhaps the one that pursues The Prisoner. Or that Mr Turnbull keeps in his ‘special’ room. We know it’s there Bill. We do.) — or to pop it. Like that silly chef in the Kronenbourg advert.
Two telly references in one post. I should be ashamed. I demand a partial refund of my lunch. And so should you. Shame on you. Go on. Get the blue crayons out. Re-e-fund, for the crowd say John Lewis gift voucher.
Anyhoo. The image struck me. Like a sparrow hitting the window (in-joke there, passerine fans). I just like the image of me working away with needles (or strictly speaking, a keyboard) to try and expand the viscous lining of an idea until it is just at the point of losing its shape. Of the tension of crafting words until a sentence explodes and you are left with nothing but full stops. And perhaps a little bit of a ‘t’ and an ‘f’. Or the joy and then concern of realising you are now in charge of a bigger bubble than you had let yourself in for.
There is only so much room in one brain after all. Particularly a sleep-deprived, Turnbull-baiting, blue-fixated brain. With a little bear attached.
