I blame Helen Hunt

I am experiencing levels of exhaustion that are potentially dangerous. Who knows when a casual slip of the finger might send an inappropriate email or a badly-timed yawn might be spotted? Any number of accidental tiredness-induced actions could lead to my being fired or - better - meeting with some form of physical accident that prevents me from working for a number of weeks. Despite a full awareness of my perilous situation, I am still unable to be vigilant or concerned about consequences. Frankly, it's a miracle that I am able to remain upright.

In an effort to keep my mind off depressing subjects, I am keeping my diary fairly packed. This is a double-edged sword - stay busy and you become tired and more likely to feel down; arrange nothing, spend too much time alone and find yourself curled up in a tear-stained ball on the floor between the wall and your bed. Or maybe that's just me.

As my sleep debt grows, I am experiencing increasing remorse for my viewing of As Good As It Gets last Sunday night. I yearn nostalgically for those wasted hours, fantasise about the precious pre-midnight slumber they could have provided and wonder how buoyant and self-confident I would be feeling now, had I not frittered away so many valuable minutes viewing the utterly implausible and faintly embarrassing sexual chemistry between Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson. Next time I do karaoke, I'll update Edith Piaf with a version of 'Je Regrette Rien Que Regardant As Good As It Gets Le Dernier Dimanche'.*

*French corrections welcomed provided that they are accompanied by grammar explanations. I'll never learn otherwise.