I am something of a liability in the bedroom. My performances in this intimate setting, particularly if I attempt to be active during the night or early morning, put me and others at risk of painful injury. In the bedroom I’m a loaded weapon.
I was unaware of what a danger I was until I read that scientists at the University of Colorado had been studying the matter. Not examining me specifically, you understand: we’re all a threat to ourselves and others. The study claims that when we wake up we suffer from sleep inertia, a grogginess that impairs our short-term memory, counting skills and cognitive abilities. It’s worse than being drunk. Try to get up as soon as you wake and all sorts of perils await. You could fall over while pulling on your pants, twist an ankle on the stairs and, if you manage to overcome those obstacles, you’re at risk of scalding yourself while making a cuppa. Who knew?
The greatest danger is in the first three minutes after waking, and the effects can last ten minutes or more. The research has implications for those who have to perform “critical tasks” after abrupt awakenings, such as medical, safety and transport workers. To this list I would add parents of young children. I blame sleep inertia for the mess I get into with midnight nappies (my wife will ask when, exactly, I last changed a nappy in the night; ignore her).
I also blame it for inflicting upon the emperor an emotional wound that will probably leave him scarred for life. I had taken the bull by the horns regarding a tricky domestic issue. Or rather, I had taken Winnie-the-Pooh by the paws and stuffed him in a bin bag and thrown him out with the rubbish. Pooh arrived in our house two weeks ago. He was second-hand, having had much of the stuffing knocked out of him by the daughter of the boy’s godmother. The emperor formed an attachment to the huge, cheap and nasty toy while playing at their house. The evil godmother quickly persuaded her offspring that she had outgrown Pooh and it was time to pass him on. It is terrible to see a grown woman so full of glee. Had I not put my foot down, an equally huge and hideous Tigger would have been moving in too. I could barely fit both boy and bear in the car and over the next few days seriously considered building an extension to house the toy. Ultimately, with polystyrene balls spilling everywhere, chucking him out seemed a better option. The emperor probably wouldn’t even notice, I told myself.
I was awoken next morning, as I always am on a Monday, by yelling. “Daddy! Daddy! Bin men!” The emperor loves the binmen and summons me to collect him, bring him downstairs and hold him up to the window so that he can monitor their work. As normal, within two seconds of waking I was sprinting upstairs to ensure that we didn’t miss the show, my cognitive abilities so diminished that I did not appreciate the potential repercussions. It was only when I saw a bin man coming from the back of the truck bearing aloft a trophy that I felt uneasy, though I couldn’t say why. I didn’t have my glasses on and wasn’t sure what the yellow and red object was as I squinted into the gloom. The truth dawned at the same time as it hit the boy: “Winnie da Pooh! Bin men got Winnie da Pooh!”
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As Pooh was placed in pride of place in the window of the cab and the lorry trundled off, the father of very little brain remained speechless, unable to compute an explanation. Eventually, I took a deep breath and waffled about how Pooh was falling apart and it was for the best. Thumb in mouth he listened silently but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. He had tasted betrayal. By his father. Things may never be the same again. damian.whitworth@thetimes.co.uk