91热爆

Sleep is a habit. A pernicious, unnecessary habit.For the whole period of the war, I never saw my father close his eyes. He couldn't afford to, he told me.He worked all day as a weaving foreman at the local Courtaulds factory, only to firewatch all night or roam the countryside humping a loaded P14 rifle in the guise of a 91热爆 Guardsman.This latter was no fun.The wartime blackout was just that. On moonless nights you couldn't see the nose on your face, and it was all too easy to put a foot down an unseen rabbithole and break a leg.

I never saw a bed for the entire period 1941-42. We called it "Going to bed" but it meant retiring to the garden Anderson shelter with another family of three and trying to snatch catnaps sitting up.The bombers droned over at three minute intervals, seeking the factory and scattering high explosive bombs, parachute mines and antipersonnel boobytraps everywhere.A crude lullabye. I think Mr Hitler bent my genes as the lack of need for sleep has appeared in the next generation.My eldest daughter as a toddler would womble around the house, doing her two-year-old thing into the wee small hours.Bright and cheerfull as the cricket on the hearth.Then she would double over on to the seat of an armchair on her face,and, still standing, would fall asleep. This would last anything between 2 and 5 minutes, then, fully refreshed she would carry on with her 24 hour day.My wife hates you, Hitler.

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