I always have, even as a child, and I suppose that’s where my antipathy first started – through being told what time I have to go to bed, with a special concession on Friday nights because tomorrow was Saturday. I’ve always disliked being told to do anything. Fridays were the exception, though. On all other nights, going to bed was about becoming unconscious, knowing that the next thing is having to get up when you don’t want to get up, and going out to do something you don’t want to do. That’s how life is for most people.
And there’s another reason for not liking going to bed. My life will have so many days in it, and going to bed is the final acceptance that another one is spent. How many more will there be? That’s why I need lots of scotch if I’m to forget the question.
And so we come to the two great mysteries of life: why is it that the years grow shorter the older you get, and why do you almost always get an itchy nose when you’ve got your hands full?