Oh, to get up early. It’s my dream. Unfortunately, I’m usually dreaming when it’s early, lost in the Land of Nod. If only I could get up early, I’d be healthy, wealthy and wise.
I’d be running aboot and lifting weights. I’d know everything but, rather than blabbing aboot it to everyone, I’d be canny, ken? And I’d be rich, having discovered a talent for, er, something as yet to be discovered at the time of going to press.
The mind definitely works better first thing in the morning. When I used to fancy being a right famous novelist, I’d get up early, sometimes breaking my sleep so that ideas from my subconscious would flood into the front of my mind. Unfortunately, they tended to be about talking bananas, and several publishers told me they couldn’t see any scope for fruit-based fiction.
Indeed, I used to get up early when I was at school, because I had a paper round and, for a while, a milk round, gadding about with a big wooden hand-cart full of crates. It was then that I discovered early that I wasn’t really cut out for driving.
Then, for a while, I was a postman – a real man of letters! – which was a job I loved, apart from having to get up at 4:30am six days a week. But I liked being oot and also aboot, and I remember this period fondly as the only time I was actually any use to the community.
But now? Och, generally, I set the alarm for 8 and get up at 9. In between times, I snooze or read the papers or do my breathing exercises. Breathing: something else I’m rubbish at it. And they tell me it’s quite important.
I don’t have to be at any office by 9, and am master of my own destiny, which is irritating. I’m not really cut out for responsibility, particularly when it’s for myself.
But I myself had to get up early this morning, as I write, and, oh, how I loved it. It wasn’t even that early: 7am. But the world felt younger and quieter and full of hope, which of course peters out as the day progresses.
I’d to take my ancient car somewhere for more remedial treatment, and walked back along the woodland path and through the sleepy village. I bid good morning to the geese and the coos and to Pixie, the wee village cat.
Back in the garden, the birds in the garden were singing like, well, linties. I put seeds in the feeder and gave the robin some suet pellets: a full Scottish breakfast for the wee fella. I felt at one with yon world.
I wish I could do this more often, aiming ideally to get up at 6. But it never really takes off. One late night watching Match of the Day or something and, next morning, I’m back to the old 8-9 routine.
After a bit, you just revert to what you’ve become used to. I think we all know of rural folk who can’t stop getting up at 6, or even 5, years after retiring.
Mind you, now that I’m up earlier, I don’t quite know what to do with myself. Think I might just go back to bed.
