I generally consider myself to be a good sleeper. Remarkably good, in fact. I once managed a full night sitting upright on a chair in the middle of a brightly lit ferry restaurant. And when I still lived at home, my dad heard a crash one evening and came upstairs to find me covered in dust on my top bunk but still soundly asleep, a dining room table sized chunk of my bedroom ceiling having fallen in around me (unsurprisingly, really, as it turns out it was essentially held together with papier-mâché after a DIY bodge more than a decade prior).
Most of the time, I manage to fall asleep at a reasonable time each evening and then wake up again around eight hours later having had an unbroken night’s sleep. I rarely wake up during the night and it’s only on the odd occasional that I find myself tossing and turning at 3am. Sometimes I think I might be too good at sleeping. It’s the escape I inevitably turn to when things go wrong. Long lie-ins, three-hour afternoon naps and ludicrously early bedtimes are my go-tos whenever I want to block out the world for a while. An insomniac I am not.