Why this incident inspired me to start writing a blog again, I'll never know...
I had just got back on Monday night from a long weekend in Ireland. My flight was delayed a couple of hours, and I was starving by the time I got back to the flat. It was pushing midnight after a long day and I had work in the morning, but I was too hungry to hit the hay without making something to eat. (Chips and cheese, as that was the sum total of my fridge-freezers contents. Unless you count milk with "personality"). By the time I got to bed I was absolutely shattered and went out like a light. (Forgetting to set the alarm...)
---[edit bizarre dream sequence]---
...I awoke with a jolt, in that state of blind panic that only the (very) sudden realisation that you have slept late can bring about. Sure enough, the neon red "07:31" glaring at me confirmed my fears. I leapt out of bed, promptly standing on a shoe lying in wait at my bedside. I lurched forward in the dark, and put a hand out to brace myself on the wall. Instead of the wall, I found the door. It was ajar enough for the top of my left hand little finger to fit through the gap. In this gap it rested for a brief, happy time... until the rest of my hand met the rest of the door at some considerable speed. Consider for a moment the fact that I had been in a deep, comfortable sleep only 8 seconds previous to this. You should then be able to imagine the confusing contrast between this blissful state, and having the fingernail and tip of your little finger being slammed firmly in a door.
It's two days later now, and my long weekend in Ireland is fading to a distant memory, but I have a still-aching purple fingernail to remind me of the awful 8-seconds which overshadowed it completely.
Somehow that doesn't strike me as fair.
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