I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON …

Never have been. I was born at twenty to two in the afternoon. Left to wake naturally, my day would start at the time that my life did.

However, schools, jobs … they get in the way. So I’ve had to learn to adjust. When my daughter started nursery, I perfected a school run look that worked for me. Out of bed wearing pyjamas – put on soft ballet shoes – jeans on over pyjamas – jumper on over pyjamas – trainers on over ballet shoes. Brush teeth (not hair) – out the door.

When she began school and I started working, I had to start dressing properly, and brushing my hair. I could manage wardrobe, hair, make-up, school run, providing I had several wake-up cigarettes and a half hour in the café before the job started. At half-three, I’d bring her home.

We’d curl up on the sofa together and she’d watch kids’ television whilst I slept. She tells me that I’d start to stir spontaneously once Blue Peter was underway, snarling ‘That fucking Katy Hill’ with mounting ferocity until full consciousness returned.

The only time that I’ve felt in proper tune with everyone else’s 24-hour timeframe was earlier this year in New York.

It turns out that residing at 40° 47′ N 73° 58′ W suits me perfectly. I woke naturally at eight, I fell asleep contentedly at 12 or 1 or thereabouts. Even as a child, I never experienced this.

Somehow, I need to make myself feel that I’m on New York time. But how?

‘Early, early, early in the morning, I wake up and I start the yawning,
I look out: what a very nice day,
But I’m going back to sleep anyway …’

Early Early, The Real Roxanne