I am a 40-year old woman that still sleeps with a cuddly toy. (“AND A CUDDLY TOY”. Sorry Americans, that is a stupid English TV joke. I think it might be “The Generation Game”). It’s a stuffed dog. Her name is Tina. She is older than I am. She used to be a nightdress case and she was pink and white. But now all her fur has been loved off and she has been patched and repatched more than a WW2 soldier. And I love her and take her to bed with me every night. What does that say about me?
Here is a poem. I wrote it in my head in 2 minutes on the toilet, so don’t expect Shakespeare. It is called Insomonia:
I can’t sleep. Again.
I do my routine. Chamomile tea, magnolia extract. Checkity, check, check.
I doze. Fitfully.
I wake up. I start multitasking. I’m doing nothing well.
Fuck it all to hell.