It seems to take forever for my brain to reboot when I first wake up. Must be running Windows XP up there. Luckily, my body seems to have sufficient residual muscle-memory to get me up and about before my higher brain functions kick in.
Owing to an unfortunate conjunction of events this weekend, I was only able to squeeze in four hours of sleep between Friday night’s performance and my Saturday morning radio slot. Consequently, I emerged from the murky morass of semi-consciousness to find myself staggering to the bathroom muttering my usual early-morning-after-late-night mantra, “self-inflicted wound. self-inflicted wound”. As I examined the haggard visage that stared back at me resentfully from the mirror, I reflected (Ahaha!) on how peculiar it was that sleep only seems to be refreshing in retrospect – generally after the first jolt of caffeine hits the bloodstream.
This is probably why the Resurrection took three days. There was no coffee in the tomb.