18/ Sleep
Reading our
daughter to sleep with one of Joan Aiken’s marvellous Dido and Pa stories, I
learned to count sheep.
-
Yan,
tan, tethera, methera....
It worked for our
daughter but it’s never worked for me.
For some people recalling or imagining some rural idyll, or seascape,
seems efficacious. I’ve put this
to the test, too, but sooner or later a nameless menace disturbs the pleasant landscape,
or some hideous shape can just be made out beneath the surface of the water. Probably some species of
jellyfish. The stuff of my
nightmares. Then as W.S Gilbert says, once again I’m lying awake with a dismal headache and repose is taboo’d by
anxiety.
My tried and
trusted method of getting back to sleep is to recite poetry and sing songs to
myself. The longer, or more
complicated the more effective they seem to be. Ronald Reagan’s favoured after dinner piece, The Shooting of Dan McGrew, with its
ballad rhythm and regular rhyme scheme, is one of my own favourites in this
somnolent state. The Jabberwocky is always helpful
especially as a continuous loop. The
song that Sam reluctantly plays again in Rick’s Café Américain, As Time Goes By, soothes me to sleep as a way of sinking
into the familiar and wonderful, black and white sentimentality of Casablanca. The mawkish, unofficial Irish rugby union anthem, The Fields of Athenry, is always useful – especially if I’ve
just watched a match where Ireland or Munster have played well.
Sometimes none of
this works so I just cut my losses, enough lyrics have been slaughtered, get
out of bed and read.