Up the Wooden Hill to Bedfordshire

I have been trying, for the past few days, to get to bed at a reasonable hour. Before 9pm, I mean, which is about the time that my darling sister is quaffing her third glass of champagne of the evening and Saskia is just starting a night shift. I love my bed, adore my duvet and count my pillows as personal friends. It hasn't happened today, as you'll see by the time of this post, and it hasn't happened for, oooh, quite a while.

I'm not quite sure why to be honest. I'm full of good intentions - Mac has been angelic at bed time since Saturday (am saying this quietly just in case) and has been in bed and asleep by 6.30 every night. David has taken to yawning profusely by 7.45pm and by 8pm I'm well on my way to realising my dream of early to bed. I can almost feel the soft scented undersheet beneath me as I toe twiddle happily. So what goes wrong?

On Saturday, after a restless Friday night because I'd got over-tired watching Benidorm, My Family and channel hopping, I woke up at twenty past seven determined to be back in my beloved bed in fourteen hours time. That night I didn't get to bed until gone eleven. Indigestion and a drama-filled phone call from Janey (Darren has apparently "gone off" her since Scarlett was born and she fears he is having a dalliance with "a trollop down the club") put paid to that. On Sunday I decided that, come hell or high water, I'd be snuggled down under the duck feather duvet by 9pm. Hah! David decided, at twenty past eight to have an in-depth discussion about what to do about the whole "second house hunting" thing. It was gone ten by the time I'd promised to get less carried away and more serious about the whole thing - I even promised I'd learn how to plaster my own walls if we got somewhere that really, really, really needed work done to it.

On Monday - my own fault - I got engrossed in my book after the last Coronation Street had finished. I could have continued to read the book in bed but didn't actually want to put it down to go up and shower and brush teeth and get changed and all that. If that makes any sense.

Last night, again, I got over tired. Half asleep and grouchy through Holby and promising to record Most Haunted and watch it later. I made the fatal mistake of turning over at 9pm and then got engrossed in the spooky shenanigans.

By now you're probably thinking, like Bea, that I'm a telly addict. I'm not. I have certain programmes that I have to watch/record and the others I can take or leave. Bea's answer to my problem is "watch less dross on TV darling and you can go to bed with a nice glass of wine and a good book" but asking me to do without Stenders and Corrie and Holby and "alternative" comedy is like asking her to give up Bollinger. Or shopping.

So tonight, with nothing on that I wanted to watch past 8pm I was determined to get up those stairs and to go to bed. David is out at a work retirement do, Mac my angelic child was snuffling in his sleep by twenty to seven and the dogs were whizzed round the block before David left for Orpington. Ten to eight, cup of tea left on the stairs, doors locked, windows shut, already showered and dressed in stunning jim jams I was breathing deeply and serenely. By the time I'd seen the credits roll on t'Street I was ready to zap the TV off and head upstairs in daylight. By this point I was grinning gleefully to myself.

But then I thought "ooh, haven't checked my emails today and Charlie was going to send me pictures of her new nephew". And while I'm on-line I must have a look-see at why my cyber pals have been up to in Blogland. Oh, and Facebook. And really must sponsor my friend on her Race for Life thing in July. And then there's Ebay, always good to have a look round Ebay.......and if I visit the Links of London site then David will find the address in the address bar thingy and be curious enough to take a look........and......and........and.........

Tomorrow. I've promised myself an early night tomorrow.