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:

Insomnia.

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.