Kit Kat Night Rachel Stanworth

Kit-Kat Night

Beyond the curtains a fierce wind drilled through the saturated tree. My newly learned yogi breathing was no competition. On an unfamiliar slippery domed mattress I tossed and twisted from stomach to back, from side to side, then back again. Pillow on. Pillow off.

Sleep was a distant dry land, far flung on the high seas of insomnia. A grey bedside lamp kept company. The worldwide web watched me swim through the net and my book was in hiding.

4am is the criminal liminal; too late to stay up, too early to rise. Unwinding the duvet I just lay there, moaning.

After some rummaging, what finally steered me towards dawn was an old Kit-Kat hidden in a fluffy dark corner of my bag. A bit squashed, but good enough. With that satisfying thumbnail pierce of the foil, I raised the nation’s favourite two fingers to the elements, to the blasting radiator, and to all thieves who come in the night.

Rachel Stanworth

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