I know that this blog appears under the name “Yianni Agisilaou” and hopefully, if yesterday’s Chortle microsite system kinks have been ironed out there will be a picture of me rather than Tommy Dassolo next to it. But I have to tell you. This isn’t Yianni.
I mean, I feel like Yianni. I gazed into the mirror and I look like Yianni.
But I can’t be. Because last night I went to sleep at 8:30pm. And Yianni hasn’t done that since he was forced to kicking and screaming at age 9.
I’ve got jetlag you see. People told me I’d get it. The time difference between London and Melbourne is 11 hours (London is behind chronologically, Melbourne is behind culturally) Which almost literally flips your body clock on its head.
So after flying in this morning at 10:30am I managed to brave the day. I saw my Mum and Dad, ate two of my favourite meals (Spaghetti Bolognese and Egg and Lemon Chicken soup. Yes, my Mum prepared BOTH for me in advance (don’t worry, it’s not rude to say it, she’s totally better than your Mum)
At 8:30pm however, tiredness hit me like a spade in the face. Never being one to ignore my body (except (1) when I feel full at an all you can eat buffet, (2) when I’m pondering whether I NEED a 5th Jager Bomb, or (3) when it’s 5am and I really need to know what happens in the next episode of ‘Lost’) I headed to bed.
At 1am I woke up. Which was unexpected. And now it’s 6am. And I’m not tired. Not in the slightest. And I just worked out why that is. Because it’s NOT bloody 6am. Not up here (taps head) Here, it’s 7pm. And I haven’t been tired at 7pm since the day after those 5 Jager Bombs.
But it’s quite good really this jetlag lark. I have had the most productive 5 hours OF MY LIFE. I’ve spent most of it doing marketing emails for my show, updating my website, writing my last blog and now this one.
And here’s a big call. If I’m not tired by 7 I will go for a jog. A morning jog. I am going to moonlight as one of those ‘morning people’ When I jog past genuine ‘AM’ers I will knowingly nod and smile at them and they will return the tacit, smug facial handshake; a gesture which says “Yes compadre. I understand. We really are better than anyone sleeping right now.” And they will not know that the only time I’m really ever up at 7am is when the aforementioned 5am episode of ‘Lost’ really gets its hooks into me, like the time Jack had to perform surgery on his arch nemesis Ben and then saw Sawyer and Kate kissing. While we’re at it, what’s with lead characters on US sitcoms being called Jack? There’s Lost, 24, er…um…
Anyway I’ve digressed. I could quite get used to this ‘being up early and being productive’ thing. I think sleeping less could be the way forward. I just googled ‘famous insomniacs’ and it’s proper A-List: Vincent Van Gogh, Napoleon, Thomas Edison, Charles Dickens, Groucho Marx. Sleep it seems, is for loser types who don’t want to paint anything, conquer anywhere, invent anything, write anything or become a member of any club who would have them.
I don’t know though. I love sleep. Well, I guess I love it. It’s hard to tell. I have a slightly bipolar relationship with sleep in that I’ll do almost anything to avoid it beforehand but then need to be dragged away from it kicking and screaming by the end. Actually, it’s a carbon copy of the relationship I had with my last girlfriend.
Whoops. It’s coming up on 7am now. Decision time. Should I go for that jog? Or slip on my snoozy sneakers for the metaphorical marathon through the land of nod?
All will be revealed in Blog number 4.
As always, thanks for reading. It’s a real pleasure writing.