Getting up early has never been one of my favourite occupations. Ever since I can remember, dragging myself into harsh, daylight consciousness from the dim and cosy depths of dream-filled sleep has been my greatest challenge of every day.
I have always been impressed, and somewhat disconcerted, by Simon’s ability to leap out of bed at the first bleep of the alarm. Over the time we have spent together, I have tried to teach him the gracious and honourable art of the Lie-In. He can now at least appreciate the notion of slobbing around in bed for a bit, with a cup of coffee and a good book, (back-ache permitting) but his lying-in abilities have yet to extend to the professional level of being able to stay-asleep-for-a-very-long-time.
Of course, this apparent incompatibility in our approaches to the start of the day has brought me many benefits over the years, mostly in the form of breakfast or, at minimum, a cup of coffee in bed in the morning. But I have also been able to revel in those special, extra minutes of deliciousness, stretching out alone in the still-warm comfort of semi-consciousness, slumbering contentedly in the nether world between dreams and imagination.
As Tom Hodgkinson states in his admirable book ‘How to be Idle’;
Everyone knows that the mind…is actually at its freest when we are lying in bed dozing in the morning… Not only is early rising totally unnatural but I would argue also that lying in bed half-awake – sleep researchers call this state ‘hypnagogic’ – is positively beneficial to health and happiness.
He goes on to expound and evidence the theory that greatness and late rising are ‘natural bedfellows’, and actually manages to devote three whole chapters of the book to the art of idleness (in the form of staying in bed) during the hours between 8 and 11am.
Given my belief in, and commitment to, the benefits of late-rising, how then has it come to pass that, every other day, I find myself rising hastily from the comforts of my friend the bed, struggling bleary-eyed into yesterday’s clothes and wellington boots, and bursting out into the cool air of the morning garden, even before the sun has peeked its shiny head above the covers of the surrounding hills? The reason for this otherwise unaccountable transformation in my getting-up habits is…The Chickens.
The Chickens, it seems, need as much daylight as possible during the course of the day to keep them acting in accordance with their chickeny reason for existence – namely the Laying of Eggs. As the days get ever shorter, and they go to bed ever earlier, not a moment must be wasted in the morning before they are let out into the productivity-ensuring brightness. Of course, if this were the only reason for letting them out of their pretty little house at the crack of dawn, I for one could happily go without ever eating an egg again, in exchange for a few more moments in bed. But there is, as always, more to it than that. And the more to it that there is, is Chicken Shit.
The chickens’ house is undoubtedly pretty (see blog post ‘After the Llamas’ – Friday 18 July 2008) – even if, from some angles, it does look rather more like a Wendy House than a serious bit of agricultural animal housing. But it is not big. It’s big enough for four French hens to snuggle up together for a comfortable night’s sleep, safe from the wind, the rain and Mr Fox. But it’s not really big enough to sustain a hygienic, poo-free sleeping environment without extremely regular (ie: daily) cleaning attention. Also, in order to stop the naughty little avians from sleeping and excreting in the nest boxes, we block them off at night with a recycled piece of shelf wood, which has to be removed early in the morning, so that desperate layers don’t seek alternative venues for their creative activities.
The upshot of all this is that someone has to get up to let the chickens out as soon as it gets light. And someone has to clean out all the night’s accumulation of crap before the chickens’ enormous feet trundle it into the nest boxes to dirty-up the pristine squares of straw where our soon-to-be-dinner ingredients will hopefully be deposited. Now, in the spirit of fairness that is the hallmark of every successful relationship, Simon and I have reached an unspoken agreement that the letting-out-of-the-chickens-in-the-morning should be a turn-taking activity. But somehow, when it comes to any form of toilet-cleaning activity, the task invariably appears to fall to me.
I suppose it serves me right for harbouring a tendency toward a cleanliness-related Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Other people (ie Simon) would probably leave it a while before thinking it needed doing. But I just cannot rest easy until the task is done. So even when it is Simon’s turn to get up to let the chickens out, my supposed restful lie-in transforms within minutes to a dissatisfied exercise in procrastination, as my dysfunctional psyche struggles to resolve the endless battle between my innate laziness and my OCD. Most days, the OCD wins, and I simply have to get up and head outside to do the Wendy-house-work.
But every Cloud of Compulsion has a silver lining. After all these many years of staying in bed until the last possible second, (plus a bit longer), and then passing the following minutes in a blind haze of frantic catching-up activity, in order to avoid the consequences of my slothful behaviour, I have, at last, discovered the joy that is the Early Morning.
Dawn is truly a wonderful time of day. And on some mornings, when the imminent rise of the sun casts a pinkish golden glow over the flimsy mist swirling silently skywards from the deep-green folds of the valley, and an unseasonable cricket gently chirrups close in a motionless tree, the sheer and utter beauty of the moment quite simply takes my breath away.
