A Good Night's Sleep

My first night camping in the Highlands was cold but it was quiet.  I haven't felt real quiet for a long time.  When you live in the centre of a city, you never do.  There's a neverending hum, and that's only the backing track for the of bin vans, sirens, drunken arguments, throbbing bass, bastard pianos beneath the floorboards.  It becomes a kind of sonic skin; close as can be, inescapable.

The cold night means the day was clear, which out of the city means stars.  Hundreds of millions of stars.  I felt like I could see every star in the universe.  Then I remembered we can't see most of the universe.  Then I remembered that in the city at night, you can't see any of the universe.  The sky is only ever sort of dark, and you never see a star.

Bed time.

I fell asleep in my tent at Admair Point with quiet in my ears.  It was a joy.

Are you getting enough sleep?  Almost certainly not:


It's not just work that's doing it to us, though.  We're doing it to ourselves:


We're doing it to our kids.  We are killing ourselves with our conventions.  Let's stop doing that.  Think of a world where we all went to bed when it got dark and got up again when the sun did.  I'd like to live in such a world.  Would you?  Let's rage against the 9 to 5.  Good night.