"I've been thinking," says my Other Half. This is seldom a good sign, given that the words usually come before one or more of the following uplifting suggestions:

a) Let's get fit through cycling/climbing/abseiling down waterfalls

b) Let's move to Whitby and buy a guesthouse

c) Let's get a really active collie from the RSPCA even though we have two cats that don't get on as it is.

So when those three little 'I've-been-thinking' words penetrate a fitful slumber at 3.56am, they are enough to strike dread into the stoutest of hearts.

I am instantly awake, but somehow I am not yet alert enough to feign the convincing deep sleep I need to shake off, or at least postpone, my OH's opening gambit.

"I think we should get that double-sided fencing for the back garden," he expands. "It's more private."

And that's it. Whatever hope I might once have harboured of getting back to sleep has fled, leaving me bleary-eyed to face the remaining darkest hours before dawn.

I quickly settle the fencing debate by agreeing to the double-sided proposal, then tackle the difficult issue of what to do with the border shrubs (clear them before the fencers arrive, we reckon).

My mind wanders off to the sleepless hours I spent listening to our current fence peeling creakily off its posts, and brooding over how soon it would come crashing through the kitchen window, during last week's overnight hurricane.

I then consider the merits of uprooting everything in our borders and starting again, considering that the shrubs at the bottom of the garden cast so much shade that nothing else will grow there.

The OH has now put the radio on and is tuned in to Radio Five's sardonically-named Up All Night programme, where other tragic insomniacs are texting their less-than-vibrant contributions in to some sporting debate or other.

I wonder whether the Valerian tablets I once bought from the herbal shop might get me back to sleep, particularly if used together with the pillow spray I got myself during a previous bout of wakefulness.

Unfortunately, both are in the bathroom cabinet and my body is exhibiting the leaden inertia only eight hours of unbroken shuteye can shift.

If I could just force myself to go without opening my eyes, I may still stand a chance of dropping off again. I've got a glass of water at the ready, so I could just pop the pills down quickly and hope for the best.

Wonder if my duvet cover is safe and dry? Hope the corner of it hasn't dipped into that glass of water.

The cat flap bangs suddenly open downstairs, slamming shut again with the kind of urgency that tends to spell the imminent murder of some innocent mouse or bird.

I could possibly step in to save it, but that inertia still has me in its grip - and there's always the grim likelihood of my being a tiny fraction too late. I deal with corpses better a little later in the morning.

Outside the window, an elaborate yet repetitive birdsong has started up, and light is clearly visible behind the blackout curtains and pull-down blinds we got to shield us from the outside world.

It is 5.56am. Time to get up in four minutes. I become gradually aware of a deep, peaceful breathing pattern in the room.

The OH is sound asleep once more.

Updated: 10:23 Wednesday, March 31, 2004