Wired

This week was sleep study week. The night in question followed one of the most stressful work days I've endured in a while, thanks to the incompetence of an editor who started out scatty, went through phases of anxious and het-up, and has flapped (and changed her mind about what she wants so much) that I am convinced she is clinically neurotic. I could have screamed at her several times over the course of phone conversations that went nowhere. I was almost in tears after the final little chat we had. I hate the way she's nasty and then makes out that she was really just a little bit concerned. I detest the way she says she has a headache, and that that's why she couldn't get the bastard brief/ amendments/ queries to me on time. I will have to think very carefully before agreeing to work for the idiot again. Grrrr... Added to that, I almost had one minor car accident and one major one, all thanks to driving while feeling OK-ish (it's all relative these days) but in reality not being alert enough to drive. I was extremely shaky on the evening of these two near-misses, which both happened on the same day. Thank God the drivers of the other cars were able to see me in time.

So, anyway, I hauled my unbelievably heavy bag to central London, checked into the wonderfully clean clinic and awaited S, who arrived quickly and stayed with me in the room (complete with flat-screen TV, shower, towel, wash kit, clean loo, fridge for drinks) for a while. The doctor told me I'd need to be wired up to 30-40 electrodes, warning me that it would take around half an hour to complete the process. After S left (all too soon, frankly), I watched some boring television, changed into my pyjamas and waited for the doctor, who arrived and began the process.

I had electrodes over my legs, chin, forehead, chest, glued into my hair, a mic on my throat, a thing across my face and under my nose to check my breathing, an oxygen clip on my finger and two straps across my body to monitor my breathing movements. The number of wires feeding back to a control box was quite impressive. There was a camera on the wall with an infra red light above it, just so they could see me kick, drool and throw myself around the small, single bed.

Two or three times during the night, the doctor came into the room to check/ paste down electrodes that must have shifted. I must have been sleeping at the time as I remember being startled at being woken. I was amazed that I slept at all, considering the traffic noise outside. But on the whole, the room was warm and fairly comfortable and it was – obviously – good that I slept for a bit otherwise the whole exercise would have been rendered useless. No point monitoring someone who is awake...

My friendly, chatty doctor roused me just before seven in the morning. I was extremely tired and could barely respond to his witticisms about the glue in my hair. Well, he had been awake all night monitoring me, so I couldn't expect him to feel as utterly wrung out as I did. I'm not great in the morning at the best of times, after all. I was served a decent breakfast and left before 8.30am, was back on the Tube (lovely rush hour...), and then, when back home again faced the work that had stressed me out so much the previous day. All in all, quite surreal.