This morning I am experimenting with writing a blog whilst being delirious from sleep deprivation and remedial caffeine consumption. Reasons for sleep deprivation are two-fold: the unlikely combination of bats and Mr Grey.
Firstly, I returned from a dawn bat survey a few hours ago, having left the house at 3am to drive to a dodgy-looking estate in Rugby and stare at a block of flats for two hours, trying to ignore creepy rustles from the recreation ground behind me, which seemed like a hotbed for nefarious nocturnal shenanigans. On the plus side, I was treated to a personal display of pipistrelle aerobatics, as a bat twisted and turned in front of me for half an hour, chasing down winged insects. Also, as always, I relished the infinitessimal, incremental lightening of the sky, as sun and moon completed their own olympic relay. There is something magical about witnessing the inevitable transition from dark to light, as birds herald the end of the night-shift.
Secondly, on arriving home, I was far too wired to sleep immediately, as is always the unfortunate case after bat surveys. Instead, I foolishly surrendered to societal pressure, and, full of reluctant intrigue, embarked upon the water-cooler behemoth that is ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’. Fifty pages of filth later (actually that’s poetic licence – filth starts on page 112 if you must know) and I was nowhere near being sleep-ready, d’oh. It is with huge disappointment in myself that I must agree with the masses: it’s another Da Vinci Code of a page-turner, damn it. I feel dirty – not for the filth, mind (I love a bit of muck, being of the Jilly Cooper sexual awakening era – see Caitlin Moran’s ‘How to Be A Woman’ for further details), but for the huge compromise I have made to my self-perceived literary discernment. Yes, I am an irrepressible literary snob, I confess, but I am not so deluded as to deny the skill of authors such as Dan Brown and E L James, whose compulsive penmanship I can not help but admire, for all its lack of erudite subtlety.
Anyway, rant over. Coffee is coursing through my veins and inappropriate images of Mr Grey are coursing through my brain. Time to get off the blog I think, and start the day. Olympic London here I come – the mens’ volleyball arena won’t know what’s hit it…