I’m an amateur insomniac. Not a zombie who never gets a good night’s rest; more a one-shot and done kind of guy. I am infamous among my wife’s friends for nodding off after dessert at dinner parties, while pretending to befriend their pets.

Once I wake up, though, that’s it. Sleep has passed me by for another night. I can lie there, getting more uncomfortable by the minute, or get up and do something worthwhile with the time.

This was all very well before Jasper arrived: the stakes have been raised by the little man. His irregular sleep patterns have turned a minor disorder into a major disability. Being unable to fall asleep a second time is now a serious threat to my sanity.

Rather than fight the inevitable decline into drooling moron status, I have decided to embrace my crazy side. Refusing to shave or get a haircut, I wander around our house in my underwear, hoping for visitors to drop in so I can scare the hell out of them. (Jasper still seems happy to see me, though I hope his first words are not “Nice doggy”.)

I no longer am capable of letting unimportant things slide. I fire off letters of complaint to the manufacturers of disappointing yoghurts, or the producers of tame movies, in the hope of opening their eyes to their lacklustre performance. I can’t wait for the job offers to roll in.

My long-suffering Carolina lived with this for quite a while. Jasper has just turned one month old, so you can appreciate how patient she has been. Until yesterday. Yesterday, she presented me with a pair of earplugs and a cloth eye shade.

Genuis! By rendering myself blind and deaf, anytime is sleepy time. Talking of which… Sleep well. I intend to.

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