If I’m going to wake up due to my intermittent insomnia, 9 out of 10 times, it’s within five minutes of 3:30am. Last night was no exception. It was 3:27.
I bolted awake like people do on tv, sure I had just heard a dog or cat with a jangly collar shake its head and jump on the bed.
This punctuated a dream in which ‘the world’ (some ‘Entertainment Tonight’-like show) was just finding out that Benedict Cumberbatch had starred in a ‘Friends’ rip-off (down to using the same theme song) sitcom in the early 2000s that, for some reason, no one else had remembered. He played a lovable, doofy rogue in tight trousers; yep, he was the Joey. The whole gang, for whatever reason, worked in the same pub (which seemed to be in a church converted into a mall?). It had unisex loos, which led to all sorts of ‘hilarious’ hijinx. It was awful. But I reminisced about it, feeling smug about having remembered its existence.
Then I couldn’t get back to sleep for ages because the rain was falling so hard and fast (still is, almost seven hours later) that I was seriously anxious about my lack of ark-building skills (still am, ditto).