So there I was lying still in the silence of the middle of the night. When it struck me that silence in my house is really, really loud. Fuzzy loud if you know what I mean.
I have only known pure silence, true dark once. At twenty five I was so thoroughly demented by the pressures of running my little shop that Mum and Dad whipped me out of my life to take me away for a long weekend on the Yorkshire Moors. The hotel was achingly beautifully old fashioned. The views breathtaking. The rest of the world a million miles away. My room was an explosion of glazed chintz. There were piles of extra blankets and a shelf full of old books. But none of the usual hotel accroutements: no trouser press, or television, no mini bar or tiny kettle. Just one single lamp. And the absolute security of nothingness. Silence. Dark. Black dark. Peace.
But that was there. Now my nights are strangely noisy. Maybe I’m listening too hard? Maybe I should stop dwelling and take up sleeping, like normal people??
So this noise? What is it? Hmmm. Could it be the computer? The tv? The stereo? Four lamps? The scanner? Printer? Two phones charging? The mobile phone constantly at my side? It ain’t good.
On too many levels, it ain’t good. Keeping all these electrical things on standby eats electricity. Lying next to a mobile phone can’t be good for the brainwaves. It is a proven fact that electro-magnetic fields interfere with the production of seratonin. And that’s before my mind tunes into the noise and lets it drown my dreams.
A bedroom should be a haven. Mine is more like an electrical goods showroom.
Time to turn down the noise.