“I’m stuck in a phase of not getting up promptly”, I say, pathetically.
“No, you’ve never ever been good at mornings”, says She.

She, of course is correct. I don’t do mornings. An alarm goes off and I silence it. A second is scheduled fifteen minutes later. The last thirty minutes after that. The Last and I then complete a half hour routine of sleep and wake. Eventually I get up when there’s no time left to waste.

It’s not a phase. It’s the worst kind of habit. It’s stupid and there’s no good reason for it but for mental laziness. It’s that, at this time of night I feel determined not to waste the next morning. When morning comes around, my brain turns to mush and through habit I don’t fight back. I let myself believe that it really is a struggle, that it’s normal or that it requires some kind of special effort not to stay in bed until mid morning. I have decided that it is time to reasses that faith.

Tomorrow my arse will be out of bed at 7. Not abnormal. Not unreasonable. Not remarkable in any way at all. This week, I’m taking the “don’t be so pathetic” method to not being shit at stuff.