Waking up at 0500hrs has its advantages. Well, it has at least one advantage. At that time, the night becomes the midwife to the birthing day and it appears that a life can be lived in the many forthcoming hours. If these 24 hours were the 42 kilometres of a marathon course, I'd still be too close to the start to even catch a glimpse of the finish line.

1900hrs and, in running terminology, I hit the wall. Instead of heavy legs, its the eyelids that feel the weight of the day's exertions. They have developed a symbiotic relationship with the earth's gravitational forces, pulling downwards with a determination that depresses me sometimes. I mean, the shops are just closing, there are employees returning to their homes, restaurants and clubs have yet to open their doors. Meanwhile here I sit on the sofa, trying to exercise the mind with a book or newspaper, but aware that I'm losing the struggle.

That's it. Whether I like it or not, the line has been crossed. 2100hrs and if even a movie like Black Death cannot keep me from nodding off, then I won't delay my journey to the land of Nod any further. I snuggle under the quilt and snuff out my social life.