I know the day and its chores will win in the end, but sleep isn't giving up easily today.
Slumber mostly just meanders away on sparkly summer mornings, good-naturedly admitting defeat to the sunshine.
Winter mornings like this are another story.
Fighting to untangle myself from the grips of sleep’s closest allies - what during the night has somehow turned into the perfect pillow and the cosiest duvet ever made in China - my hand finally breaks free.
Feeling its way towards where my memory and my rudely awoken ears suggest my phone, and its particularly alarming alarm, is, it succeeds in shutting off the interminable noise.
Not before the first collateral damage of the morning is recorded though, and once more I question the sense in bringing a glass of water to bed.
Peeling open my eyes is as challenging as separating kissing teens. Stomach crunches are nothing compared to the effort it takes to sit up.
In summer my legs swung noiselessly over the bed’s edge; now I groan in solidarity as I push them to the precipice and leave them with no option but to fall off the cliff and onto the Siberian floor.
With an almighty effort I lift myself into a standing position, and sleep’s hold is broken.
The fight is won.
I am up.
