Oh, do shut up, eh?

Flowers are other-worldly beautiful things, aren't they? Rhetorical, obviously. I just stepped into the back garden to discover a wild mass of pansies and new roses basking in this morning's rays. The leaves are wet from last night's rain and the sun is glinting off the droplets. The picture above was taken at Kew Gardens a few weeks ago. It is, unfortunately, not my garden.

I went to bed in a grump last night. I'd spent the evening having dinner with two friends, one of whom complained constantly that she was very tired, and she is, again, very unhappy in a newish job. (Er, why not just bloody well leave?? Life's too short, my friend...)

So, I watched as they drank wine (I'm not allowed any due to the sleep programme and the sleeping medication I'm on). But that was OK, I really didn't mind. The waiter brought over a fruit cocktail based on passion fruit. It wasn't as nice as a dark, fine rioja would have been as it slipped down my throat, but it was a good substitute.

But, Maria, who I do actually like a lot, spent the evening saying how tired she was. Tired. Tired. Tired. So fucking tired.

Don't get me wrong – I did feel for her at first – how could I not? – but after ongoing comments about how big her under-eye bags were (they were non-existent) and how bad life was in general, because she was working so hard (join the club), I felt my patience and sympathy waning rapidly.

Now, I realise that my stance probably appears unkind and lacking in compassion but Maria knows about my insomnia, she knows I've worked like a dog for months and knows I feel like something that a cat has half-killed and dragged in as a gift for its owner much of the time.

Still, as per a previous post, I can't expect people to understand how debilitating insomnia – the clinical kind – can be. I smiled and laughed but felt my smile tighten with every blasted additional reference to her sodding tiredness. Maria is probably now still in bed, sleeping soundly. I was up at 7.10am, as I will be every single day for months as per sleep-guru-therapist P's instructions.

It was quite something for Maria's complaining to bring me down last night but it did go on for at least three hours. I'd spent the working day laughing my head off at just about everything, despite the problems around me at work (namely Gordon). I blame – or, rather, thank – my post-kung fu euphoria, which a) helped me to sleep and, b) probably released a shed-load of endorphins that made me very, very happy. Giggly, in fact. I laughed so much that I cried. I laughed at everything and nothing. It was like being a child again.

Work had (as usual) been chaotic as Gordon flapped around all day like John Inman looking for a particular type of tie at Grace Brothers in Are You Being Served?. But I found it all funny instead of annoying for a change. It was infectious. My colleagues (bar Gordon) started laughing, too, and we sat there for most of the afternoon, red-faced and mildly hysterical.