I suppose we have all been there at some point. You’ll be all snuggled up in the welcoming arms of Morpheus, dreaming about chocolate or sunshine or in my case singing to your adoring fans at Wembley stadium before getting off the stage, clearing the crowds and suddenly scoring the winning goal at the same stadium in the FA Cup final. Alright, your dream may vary in some major detail from mine, but the principle is the same. For the purposes of this story, imagine you are having the same dream as me. 

You get ready to take your bows, sign autographs and welcome Beyoncé to your dressing room so she can celebrate your greatness with you, when all of a sudden there’s a wee voice in your ear. The voice gets louder, changing from the roar of a crowd to the wailing sound of your very own bladder telling you that it fancies a trip to the bathroom. 

You ignore it. You think that maybe you could get back to sleep if you try hard enough. But there’s no point trying to deceive your brain, who at that point decides to join the party. 

“Way yeah! We’re awake! Let’s go, folks! Here’s some thoughts to keep the energy going! 

The lawn needs mowing. Did you set the dishwasher off? Was that an owl? You remember when you said the wrong thing to your mate Alex in 1988? I know he said he realised that you didn’t mean it as it sounded, but still, let’s go over that again shall we? And while we are at it, did that Amazon order arrive? And did you get anything out of the freezer for tonight’s tea? Have you fed the cat? There’s a strange noise in the car, better get that seen to. The wheel might fall off next time you’re on the A69. And have you ordered your Mum’s birthday present? Better do it soon! Now, in fact, get up and do it now!”

The right little toe wakes up, and decides to join in the fun. 

“Hi. I know you don’t think about me very much, so here’s a worrying little pain for you, something to keep you occupied. I expect it’s very serious, so I’d see a doctor if I were you. Quickly mind, you’ve probably only got a few days to live now.”

Your left ear contributes by telling you that it’s too hot, it’s being crushed, so you turn over, and try to settle down again. At which point the bladder reminds you that it still fancies a trip out. 

For fear of being ignored, the brain tries again. “You’d better try and eat more healthily and lose some weight. You’ll die an early death if you don’t. It may even be before breakfast.” That’s when I decide to have fruit and yoghurt when the morning eventually rolls around, just to be sure. Some party this is turning out to be. 

Then the house makes a noise. A floorboard creaks, which is really odd because we don’t have any floorboards. Maybe it was my own knee that was creaking. Quite possible; all the other parts of my tired old body seem to have something to say at this ungodly hour. 

Or could it be a ghost? My own version of Jacob Marley, come to remonstrate with me for all my past misdemeanours. What have I done that means I deserve to be haunted? I once walked out of a newsagents with an unpaid for Kit Kat, but that was unintentional and it was over fifty years ago now. How long do your sins last? Maybe it was the ghost of Mr Taylor, the wronged shop owner.

No. It must be a burglar. You should go and have a look. Suppose you get downstairs and there’s some hulking great brute helping himself to your TV and the contents of your fridge. What will you do? Best stay here. But then the bladder starts to really protest and you realise that there is no alternative. You will have to get up.

You look at the clock to see that the last three hours passed by in just under six minutes. Figuring that the burglar must’ve gone by now, you creep out to the bathroom, not daring to turn the lights on for fear of attracting attention from either the intruder or the restless cat that you share your house with. 

But it’s too late. The relief that comes with the feeling of an empty bladder and an absence of visiting criminals evaporates as a strange howling sound fills the air because it’s now that the restless cat picks the moment to sing to you in the ancient song of his people. In his head I’m sure it sounds like “Oh Hi, Steve, My Lord and Master. Can’t you sleep? Well, why not sit and talk to me for a while?” But in the real world his 110 decibel meow sounds like fingernails down a blackboard. During an air raid. 

Don’t be fooled. He’s the loudest cat in North East England. But only between midnight and 6am

And so it goes on, round and round, for what seems like hours. I actually fall asleep twenty minutes before my alarm goes off. And even though I feel cheated of proper rest, of course it all looks very different when daylight peeps through the curtains.

My bladder pretends it never did anything wrong, my little toe denies any attempt to frighten me and there is no sign of any break in, my TV sitting quietly where I left it last night. And my brain is solely concerned with putting together some fruit and yoghurt and planning the day ahead. 

Felix. Sleeps whenever and wherever he likes.

Oh and maybe wondering if it’s illegal to lock the cat in a sound proof cell overnight.