Today I woke up to my housemate’s alarm, which happened to be opera. I noticed how the tune grabbed a hold of me, and I thought how music hadn’t affected me like that in a long time. I started thinking how I’m finding it really hard to be interested in things at the moment: things just seem really boring.

So, over breakfast, I decided that if I can’t make myself feel any better, I might as well try to brighten other people’s days. I’ve decided to make 5 people feel encouraged today.

And you know what? Life doesn’t look so bad any more.

There’s nothing in the Bible about how to do mornings. Therefore I’m gonna go ahead and claim that they are unbiblical.

Mornings are a common theme in my blog posts I’ve noticed. This observation is easily explained. Simply, I hate mornings. More specifically, I hate getting out of bed.

I am completely puzzled as to why getting out of bed should be so unpleasant. Everything else that contributes to survival is pleasurable: eating, sleeping, being warm, etc. Surely waking up and getting on with the day is quite a large part of survival, so why should it be so horribly painful? Major design flaw in the human brain, I’m thinking.

The only thing that can make mornings more bearable, apart from the inspiration of the Spirit, is mango juice. Quick poem:

Mango juice

1. Tasty and delicious.
2. Fruity and nutritious.

So this morning I rock up to work for 7.45, as I do most days, only to discover that I didn’t have to be in til 9. No-one else from the office is in yet, so I’m taking this opportunity to tell you about a game I have been playing. Possibly ever since I was born, but maybe even earlier than that. I call it, “How low can you go?” and the main object is doing anything and everything to stay in bed for as long as possible.

It’s called “How low can you go?” because squeezing those extra minutes out of your lie-in can be achieved by omitting parts of your morning routine. Things like showering, eating breakfast, that kind of thing. The sad part of this game is that there is no way to win. Unless you wish to lose your job, you really do have to get up eventually.

But then the great part is that once you are up, it’s actually not that bad! This is the amazing part of each and every morning. You (and by “you”, I mean “I”) look upon getting out of bed as the most terrible mission, to be faced with bravery and gritted teeth. Removing yourself from the warm confines of the duvet, that most motherly of all household objects, appears to be the same thing as removing yourself from all that is good, holy and true. It seems like throwing yourself into the very pit of hell itself. Dante’s hell, I mean, which at its heart was not hot and fiery, but cold and frozen.

On that note, why is it that the coldest temperatures in the Universe are found not in the Arctic, nor in the far flung corners of outer space, but precisely four inches from the inside of your bed? Science tells us that absolute zero is the coldest possible temperature, at which molecules lose all their kinetic energy and stop moving completely. I have proof otherwise. If they were to come into my room just seconds after I had woken up (and if they had survived the onslaught of language so foul it solidifies in mid air, like shards of bitter, bitter ice*) they would find that the air defied physics and remained gaseous even though it was cold enough to form black holes.

The most amazing thing about “How low can you go?” is that you get to be a champion every morning. Every day, for the whole of my life, I have eventually gotten out of bed. (That qualifier, ‘eventually’, is there to cover my student years. And most weekends. And most holidays.) This very morning, I had the victory over despair and despondency, over laziness and lethargy, over fear and fright.

So there’s something for you to do in the mornings. Let me know how you get on.

* This is dramatic license, I’m not that bad, actually.

This is another reason why we should instigate Mourning Morning as quickly as possible. I have been looking forward to sleepily staying in bed this Saturday morning all week, but apparently my body got so much good quality sleep that it decided that 7.30 was a good time to be fully awake.

Naturally I completely disagreed, so forced myself to go back to sleep. I even tried to emulate Monday morning by getting my alarm clock to go off every 9 minutes (true alarm clocks go off every 9 minutes after snooze, not 10 — but here’s the mystery: nobody knows why*). I stretched out the lie-in until 11.11, and then was forced to get out of bed because I was aching and filled with misery. So much for lie-ins I tell you. It’s horrible. I’ve been getting up at 6 for the last, well, ever it seems, and I’m tired of it. No pun intended. This is too serious for puns.

What has happened to my student ability to sleep? I used to be able to waste my life perfectly happily, and now I can’t bear to stay in bed much past 9 before my conscience goes mental. Why, it’s almost as if I’m becoming a useful member of society.

The worst part is the the only vestige of the student lifestyle I have left is my poor, crippled finances. A cosmic joke, if ever there was one.

Anyway, I’d better get dressed. The house needs hoovering.

* This is true, actually, look it up.

Today as I dragged myself to work my mind wandered to the concept of national days. We have a national day for everything, it seems. Grandparents, back pain, breast cancer, the Queen’s birthday (twice). We even celebrate when the banks take a break — presumably these people must be so hard working that when they stop it’s so momentous an occasion that the nation pays its respects. (I must admit I have never found this to be the case: they’re never open when I’m free and they shut early on a Wednesday. To quote so many poor quality stand up comedians: “What’s that about?”)

Anyway, it occurred to me that we pause to remember all kinds of griefs in the calendar. World Wars, this tragedy, that tragedy etc. But we don’t pause to remember that most terrible form of grief that all of us experience.

I’m speaking, of course, about having to get out of bed in the morning. What an awful way to start the day! Who was it who decided that every single day of our entire lives (unless we are in a coma) would begin with getting out of bed. Surely, days should start with something wonderfully pleasant. What about sunrise, I hear you cry. Well they’re nice I suppose, but don’t you have to get out of bed to witness them?

So therefore I suppose national Mourning Morning. This would be where for the whole morning everyone sat around feeling sorry for themselves, rubbing their eyes, yawning and generally not being very productive. Sounds a lot like your average working day, doesn’t it? The only difference here would be that it would have a proper name (not just ‘laziness’) and it would be marked on people’s calendars. And the Prime Minister would make a speech or something.

“Today we remember the hard work and dedication of everyone who had to get out bed this morning. Bloody good show, the lot of you. I’m off to drink some brandy with the Queen and Prince Philip now, so … goodbye!”

My parents had a radio alarm clock that woke them up to the sounds of Radio 4 in the mornings. As I was growing up, my room was directly next to theirs, and I grew to both loathe and detest this disturbance at the beginnings of each day. I felt powerless to stop the onslaught of news and current affairs until one day I discovered that my bedside lamp provided me with the best ever weapon against the dulcet tones of Sue MacGregor, John Humphrys and James Naughtie.

Not to mention Brian Perkins. O Mr Perkins! Where would we be without you?

Where indeed…

I happened upon my discovery one evening when listening to my own radio. I noticed that if I held the switch on my lamp between the on and off position, the lamp would flicker, presumably due to the contact almost being made but not quite. I think I once saw sparks within the body of the switch, but I don’t remember for sure.

This flickering also had the wonderful ability to interfere with radio signals. It would make the reception of any channel so irredeemably poor that to listen to the station was the most unbearable aural torture. It provided me with hours of secret mirth to hear my parents curse the white noise that so inexplicably plagued their radio before switching it off to allow me delicious silence in which to doze for a few more precious minutes.