Tim Dowling: a night to remember

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/sep/13/tim-dowling-awake-at-night-no-alcohol

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One side-effect of not drinking is that I find myself alive to the night. I am woken by the faintest noise: the patter of rain on leaves, the whir of a passing bicycle, the gentle thunk of someone testing my car door handle at 2am.

On Monday night, I find the little dog asleep at the end of the bed, exactly where my feet go, in direct contravention of stated rules. I poke the dog in the ribs with a toe and it leaps off the bed and scurries away. This often happens. What I didn't realise is that, as soon as it thinks I'm unconscious, the dog returns to take up its former position. I poke it again and it runs off. Fifteen minutes later, it comes back. "It won't work any more," I say. "I'm alive to the night."

"Shut up," my wife says.

On Tuesday, I wake up at 5.30am to find the cat sitting on my chest. On Wednesday, I realise the cat does this every morning at 5.30am, alternating between staring at me and staring at the alarm clock, in the fond hope that I am about to get up and feed it. "You're way off," I say. "Come back in two hours."

"Stop talking," says my wife, who is also alive to the night. I discover that she regularly wakes up to read between 2am and 3am, and that she sometimes drapes an extension lead across my body in order to recharge her e-reader.

"This is not acceptable," I say, waking to find a four-way multisocket unit balanced on my forehead.

"I don't have a plug on my side," she says.

"I can't imagine any safety organisation recommending this," I say. "Can you?"

"Fine," she says. "Be selfish."

By Thursday, I'm beginning to wonder if we're ever going to drink again, but I do not wish to be the first person to raise the subject. "Do we have any, um, plans for the weekend?" I say during supper.

"What are you talking about?" my wife asks.

"Are we, for example, doing anything tomorrow?" I say.

"I'm certainly not," she says. "Are you?"

Something suddenly occurs to me. I compose my features carefully. "I am, as it happens," I say.

"Like what?" she says.

"Well, it's my wedding anniversary, so I thought…"

"Agh!" she shrieks.

"I just thought I might find some way to commemorate 22 magical years," I say.

"How dare you," she says.

"What's he done?" the middle one says.

"Not a huge party," I say.

"He knows I've blocked it out," she says. "He just remembers it to spite me."

That night, while the cat and I are staring at each other in the dark, I realise I may have overplayed my hand. Most years, a lame gesture – a bunch of flowers from the supermarket, say – is all that's required to shame my wife for forgetting our anniversary. Anything more elaborate would be cruel. By reminding her, I've given her an opportunity to buy me a present, thereby raising the bar.

At lunchtime on Friday, my wife comes home laden with shopping bags.

"Did you get me anything?" I say.

"No," she says, "it's all school stuff." I check the bags: socks, pants, cheap white shirts. It's clear she has forgotten all over again.

By 6pm, I'm confident that my traditional lame gesture will more than suffice. I pass my wife on my way to the front door.

"I'll be back in a minute," I say.

"Where are you going?" she says, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Nowhere," I say.

She stares at me for a moment. "Are you getting wine?" she says.

"Oh yes," I say.