After a pleasant evening of TV and chat with the Panther, I simply don't know when to stop.
The show we sat down to sneer at is finished and the bedtime hour (when taking into account our age, the horrible time the alarm is set for and the likelihood of Boy Three appearing in the small hours) is long gone. The telly appears to be full of utter nonsense, like the kind of junk food that seems delicious in theory but disappoints leaving you unsatisfied and grubby. But I sit and gaze at it. For ages.
My Tattoo Hell on Channel 4
Upstairs is full of temptations - a large comfy bed, large comfy PJs, proper books and an electric blanket. Yet, I don't appear to be in a rush to get there.
So I struck on a plan - the Go-To-Bed alarm.
I set my phone with a particularly irritating alarm to go off at 10.30pm from Sunday to Thursday and then I leave my phone in the kitchen. And so far it's worked a treat... I have to get my bum off the sofa to stop the annoying siren, by which time I'm half way to bed. It's one of my better ideas. I've even managed to read more than six pages of a novel this month so far.
