This morning (continued)

(To read what happened first, look here)

It's 1am. We're dropped at the Liskegard Premier Inn, situated between the nearest thing South Cornwall has to a motorway, and a business park containing Homebase and Morrissons.

The Premier Inn is good. It really is premier. It has a shower and beds and the beds have sheets on them. I haven't seen these for some time. I love it. I lie on the bed and laugh. It's better than The Crillon.

I fall asleep immediately.

I wake up about an hour later.

MAF (My American Friend) is talking in his/her sleep. Quite distinctly, and at schoolroom volume.

Go to sleep, I say.

S/he does.

So do I.

But half an hour later s/he's doing it again.

S/he stops and I try to sleep again but I can't. I have been woken up one time too many. I lie for about twenty minutes wondering what to do.

Eventually I know the answer. The answer is definitely to get up and try to get out of our bedroom without putting the light on.

MAF wakes up

What's the matter?

You were talking in your sleep.

I open our door and, in the light from the corridor, I begin to put on my clothes.

What? What are you doing?

I don't know. I can't go back to sleep. I haven't had enough sleep this weekend and now I've been woken up twice and I just can't go back to sleep again.

This is where things begin to get transatlantic. The more s/he seeks to explore the inner reasons for my behaviour, the more clipped and British I get in a lurching attempt to keep it together.

MAF: Is it something I've done?

No.

Is it because I was late for the taxi?

No. Don't be silly.

But. Wait. What are you going to do?

I don't know. I can't sleep. I have to go for a walk. Maybe I'll go to Saint Germans and wait for the train.

But it doesn't come for four hours!

I still just have to go.

Are you being passive-aggressive?

No - No! I'm. Just. Tired.

Stop! Can't we talk about it?

I think about this one. It's tempting. I'm so tired I could blame MAF for anything, including stuff that happened when I was two.

No.

You don't want to talk about it? You'd rather go wait on a cold train station for four hours than have it out with me?

Thank f*ck I choose the right answer.

Yes.

As soon as I get out of the door I go straight to the front desk, dragging my tent on a trolley, rucksack plus other stuff.

What time is it? I say at the obese bearded night-clerk. Do you have another festival room?  You see the person I'm sharing with, (I wheedle), I don't know him/her very well (a big lie) -  talks in his/her sleep...

The nice big guy gives me new room keys and an alarm clock. After some time, I sleep until about 7am.

...

This is (unfortunately) not the end. More tomorrow. It gets worse.

In the meantime, here's a pic of Tom Hodgkinson and Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall (who winked at me during the festival party - but maybe he does that to everyone) double-acting over some wet fish...

Comments

[Jane]

Ahh, this is gripping. It reminds me of several nightmare trips. I hope it has a happy ending..

[badaude]

Oh it gets worse before it gets better...