My solution has been to scroll through my life, my thoughts, my fantasies, my memories, mis-memories, and the like until I have chanced upon events, people, or narratives that I can employ to divert my mind from the body in which it is encased. These mental exercises have to be interesting enough to hold my attention and see me through an intolerable itch in my inner ear or lower back; but they also have to be boring and predictable enough to serve as a reliable prelude and encouragement to sleep. It took me some time to identify this process as a workable alternative to insomnia and physical discomfort and it is by no means infallible. But I am occasionally astonished, when I reflect upon the matter, at how readily I seem to get through, night after night, week after week, month after month, what was once an almost insufferable nocturnal ordeal. I wake up in exactly the position, frame of mind, and state of suspended despair with which I went to bed—which in the circumstances might be thought a considerable achievement.

Nothing, really. But without little sleeping pills, I’d go crazy.

Stress, love, people not understanding me, me not understanding people.

The X Factor (wondering about song choices) and watching TV. I’m a night person, and don’t go to sleep until 3am or 4am.

Never making it into a Sondheim musical.

A longed-for, familiar shore at sunset.

I would have gone to my singing lessons at Guildhall.

As good enough.

A saint. Then a ballerina.

When my son was born. Actually, probably a month after, when I got over the enormous responsibility of being a mum.