SUNDAY NIGHT, MONDAY MORNING

There's something about Sunday nights and Monday mornings.  When I was living with the Future Ex-Husband he invariably had a sleepless night before having to endure the heaviest day's schedule of the entire week.  And since I've been living in Nice, the 'Monday morning effect' has regularly given me reason to wish I could have stayed in bed until Tuesday afternoon at the very earliest.


I had quite a full day yesterday, for a Sunday.  I'd hosted an ex-pat coffee meeting in the morning (meaning I had to set my alarm and be down in the centre of town long before the last of the tourists were chomping on their chewy croissants, dressed, as these cheap travellers tend to be, in seasonally-inappropriate head-to-toe white linen). Normally the conversation flows easily at ex-pat events, but yesterday it was hard work, and I actually had to mingle more professionally than is often required, saving a succession of guests from the wit and wisdom* of one particular happy camper.  


Then a few of us sat at a local restaurant for a long jovial lunch, before ambling over to a small gallery, which was offering a display of giant colour photographs of A-List-famous jazz musicians, along with live music from a duo which included David Reinhardt, grandson of Django.  


A couple of hours socializing here (standing up all the while), and I was thoroughly done-in.  As were we all in my party; apart from my gorgeous American friend, Santa, that is, who instantly had men queuing around the block for a chance to chat her up.  (I told her she was being greedy, but did she share her conquests?  Did she hell.)


I somehow got myself home on my weary legs, cooked a simple supper, went to bed early and dropped easily off to sleep.


Yep, you've guessed it.  It was Movie Night in the bedroom next door! Don't worry about booking a seat, folks, you can enjoy it all from the comfort of your own bed!  All programmes start at 11.15pm or later!


I thought about banging on the wall, but - once again, like last time - I hesitated.  After five minutes, Monkey Woman (who was possibly still revising the colloquial English phrases I taught her last week) went into her bedroom and smacked her ignorant boyfriend around the head with a large haddock. (Well, a girl can dream.)  Off went the DVD.   But it had done its job well and already woken me up, so 1-0 to him.


Peace once again restored, though, I lay in bed inviting sleep to return.


Cue violent thunderstorm. Oh, and make it last an hour and a half. Thanks!


I got up and watched it from my living room window, which gives a floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of the area of the city in which I reside. Stunning, spectacular, SWEARWORD annoying.


Finally, finally, it blew over and I crawled back to bed.  It was 2.15am by now.  Down I snuggled under my (two) fluffy duvets.  


Visit her, gentle Sleep!
With wings of healing.  
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!

Cue Bin men.

For almost every night, the refuse collectors of Nice disperse across the city with their grindingly-loud waste-disposal vehicles and noisy conversation (they obviously have to shout at each other to be heard above the grindingly-loud waste-disposal vehicles) and this, now, was their time...

And so, I look like a panda this morning.  (It's my eyes, dear Reader, I'm really not clutching a pawful of bamboo to my bosom.)  

What do I have to do today?  I have to research material for three Health and Beauty articles. 

What will these articles say?  Yes, you've guessed it: forget drinking lots of water, eating organic produce and tiring yourself out naturally with daily gentle exercise, just down a bottle of plonk every night, swallow a fistful of sleeping pills and invest in industrial grade earplugs.  Invoice on its way, Melissa.

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*  WARNING:  HEAVY IRONY