Experts are telling us we’re not getting enough sleep and not spending enough time in the scratcher these days. The side effects can be severe: poor judgement, irritability, a plethora of minor ailments and even depression.

I suffer from most of those, even the irritability. I’m getting crankier as I get a bit older. The Mother agrees, although she wouldn’t blame sleep deprivation. She thinks it’s all a man thing, unaccustomed as we are to a bit of pain and hardship.

We were talking about the very subject in the pub the other night and Tom Cantwell, our resident expert on everything, reminded us that years ago, in the winter, people had no choice but go to bed early and stay in bed till there was enough natural light to see where you were going.

“Before the invention of the battery and electricity, there was no point in getting out of the bed before half eight or nine o’clock; you’d be fumblin’ around in the dark. And after half six in the evenin’ you’d have the same problem. Only the rich could afford the candles that enabled them to stay up half the night. Ordinary people got loads of time in bed durin’ the winter.

“Do you know what,” says I, “can’t progress often be a curse?”

As well as getting more cantankerous, I find that I can sleep nowadays at the drop of a hat. If I sit down at all during the day I’ll nod off – whether I’m at home, at the depot or in the council. Even when I’m in a public place, the minute I sit the head will go down and I’ll sometimes wake myself snoring. It can be very embarrassing.

My worst time is after the lunch or the dinner. I dread council meetings held in the afternoon, especially if you’ve had the spud in the middle of the day. Indeed, I have to be careful what I eat with the spud – in case I not only fall asleep but fail the emissions test as well.

It happened me two weeks ago. I arrived in Clonmel starving with the hunger and only minutes to spare before the council meeting. As luck – or misfortune – would have it Sticky Stakelum’s chip wagon was parked beside county hall. I rushed up to the wagon and Sticky greeted me with his normal obsequiousness,

“Councillor Maurice, and how are you? You look like a man in need of sustenance. My humble mobile catering facility is at your service.

“Sticky,” says I, “don’t bother with the palaver, just give me a chip and a burger as fast as you can. I’m late for the council meeting.”

“It is your lucky day, my good Councillor. I have just prepared the same repast for my own luncheon and will give it to you with a heart and a half, as you dash off to serve the public.”

“Good man, Sticky. How much do I owe you?”

“That will be 6.50 in European currency, please.”

“Jaysus, Sticky, I was hardly going to pay you in roubles. Here’s seven yo-yos. Put the change in the poor box.”

I took off at a trot, eating Sticky’s repast as I went. He hadn’t told me the chips were smothered in curry sauce and the burger was under half a field of onions. I was too late to go about removing the onions and too hungry to stop eating. I rushed into the chamber wiping the grease off my chin as the chair, Moll Gleeson, struck the bench with her gavel and called the meeting to order.

Proceedings opened with the reading of the minutes of the last meeting, which was a sedative in itself. However, the first item on the agenda – a report from the Strategic Policy Committee – was a general anaesthetic in comparison.

At the best of times reports from this committee would turn an insomniac into Sleeping Beauty – and no sooner was the first paragraph read than I was gone. The eyelids drooped, the neck muscles softened and, try as I might, I couldn’t stop the slide into slumberland.

I soon started to snore – but worse was to come. As Sticky Stakelum’s curry chips and onions entered the lower reaches of my digestive system, the gastronomic eruptions were earth-shattering in their proportions. The emissions and their sound effects caused the reading of the Strategic Policy Committee report to collapse ignominiously.

I woke to the sound of the chair banging her gavel and shouting: “Councillor Hickey, what’s going on? It sounds as if the Battle of the Somme is being fought at both ends of you. Could I appeal for a ceasefire so that we can get on with the serious business at hand?”

There’s a lot to be said for eating at home and sleeping in your own bed.CL