Late nights early mornings

Staying up late in your forties

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

I did something this week that I haven’t done since 1996. I went out on a school night, had four hours’ sleep, then got up and did a 13-hour day at work, followed by another night out.

Back in 1996, I did this most weekends. Every Friday, I would go out clubbing with my friends, stagger home in the early hours for a few hours’ sleep, before getting up at six to catch the train to Leeds, where I worked in a shoe shop. I’d stand around bored out of my mind selling shoes, earning £1.65 an hour, before going home for a quick shower, change and out again.

Older people I knew—mainly my mum and her friends who, at 46, seemed ridiculously old to me—would marvel at my stamina.

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ they’d say. ‘I couldn’t do that anymore. Could you Sharon?’

‘No.’ Sharon would give a shake of her head. ‘Definitely not. How about you, Jane?’

‘No way!’

They looked at me with horror.

I looked at them with pity. Imagine not having the energy to enjoy yourself. How sad was that?

Twenty-eight years later, I have turned into them. In fact, I’m probably worse. I’m up at five or six most mornings and in bed by 10pm. I wouldn’t even attempt to do something as reckless as function on four hours’ sleep, let alone go to work afterwards.

But this week, I had no choice. We’d booked the theatre to see The Kite Runner in Sheffield on Wednesday evening. Being an hour’s drive away, I knew it would mean a late night, but I could always stay in bed a little later the next morning.

When a work meeting was scheduled for Thursday in Birmingham, I knew I’d have to abort the lie-in and get up before I’d gone to bed.

At first, the idea of attempting a late night and early morning on a weeknight threw me into a panic. How would my 44-year-old body cope? But as I really enjoy my work meetings in Birmingham, I decided to embrace the challenge. It would be fun.

On the Wednesday night, we drove to the Lyceum in Sheffield, watched the play, which was amazing, then tried to leave. Unfortunately, most of the roads out of Sheffield were closed for road works. We drove around for ages, trying to find a way out. We made it home as the clock turned midnight.

I’d have five hours’ sleep. That would be okay. Except my hormone app had predicted a poor night’s sleep, and it wasn’t wrong. I was restless, waking at one, and again at four. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got up to begin my day.

At the train station, I decided the only way to ensure survival was to abandon my Yorkshire Decaf Tea for fully caffeinated and to forget about healthy eating. Biscuits, crisps and the Fruit Salad sweets provided by the co-working space we use would be very much on the agenda.

I breezed through the day, knowing that the real test would come on the way home. This is when it gets messy as rush hour commuters scramble for seats. Last time, I didn’t sit down until we reached Derby. This time, I hopped on at the right time and got a seat straight away, and even ordered a packet of ready salted and a KitKat from the at seat trolley service.

I’d just finished eating when I received a WhatsApp message from Chris, telling me that Olivia, our niece, was inviting us for a pizza night. He didn’t even wait for my response because he knows I never say no to Olivia.

Two hours later, as my train pulled into Wakefield, Chris stood on the concourse, brandishing two bars of Dairy Milk. We drove the 45-minutes to Olivia’s, devoured a selection of Domino’s finest, before heading home for a Yorkshire decaf.

I expected to feel tired on Friday, but I didn’t. I was up at six, and more productive than ever at work. The change of scenery and being in a city always gives me a boost.

It wasn’t until the evening that the tiredness took hold. I had a moment, around 6.45pm, just as I was leaving my spin class, when my mind became fuzzy with fatigue. I couldn’t remember where I’d parked the car, and then tried to get into one that I thought was mine but wasn’t.

My body was heading into the weekend, but in my mind, it still felt like Wednesday. Forty-eight hours had passed in a blur.

In an ideal world, I would have spent Saturday reading, writing, resting and recovering, but there were two reasons stopping me. The first, I’m running a 10k in a few weeks and needed to do some emergency training. The second, and most important, my sister’s hen party was that afternoon.

After a lovely afternoon tea, we hit the dance floor and stayed there for five hours. We laughed, we sang, we danced. It was a great night, a brilliant week, and such a lovely surprise to realise I’ve not lost it. I can still party like it’s 1996.

With my sister at her hen party.