I've discovered Simon is not an early riser; each morning I've left the flat before he's even stirred. I'm not used to having to pad quietly around the apartment (it's an impractical open-plan design), listen to the Today show at a barely audible volume, or stress about the noise the blender makes when I create my smoothie. Nor am I especially happy that I have to let Bob the dog out into the garden and watch him do a giant poo on my lovely lawn first thing.
It's the same at weekends. I'll get up at a leisurely 9am, while Simon will happily continue snoozing until at least 11. He's not much better than the children: these days they often don't surface until well after 2pm.
I worry that I'm getting old. Old people apparently don't sleep very much and start their days absurdly early. I now feel like an OAP as I pitter-patter around in the dark with Bob staring at me from his basket and Simon so alarmingly immobile he could audition for a part in Silent Witness.
Since I'm convinced that I work harder than anyone I know, bear more levels of stress than anyone I know, and have a bigger social life than anyone I know, I really can't understand how anyone can need more sleep than me! I think I'm going to start making a lot of noise. It's my – I mean our – house after all.
