I don't know how I'm up. I've normally taken to the bed with my pipe, slippers and puppy-eared collection of Ireland's Owns by now but there's no sleeping in me, just snatches of Sunday and the refusal to miss the storm.
I want to be awake and alert when Hurricane DavidMcWilliams breezes past and spirits Mary Harney off to her eternal Liffey cot. 'Floodgate,' some wag will dub it.
I get snatches of the day coming back to me.
The showing off of my DVD collection, at last, and admiration replaced by, "I'd love nothing more than to alphabetise that, and what is Jade Goody's autobiography doing in your wardrobe?"
The stirring of coffee in Spar and something wonderfully droll, followed by, "you're making a note of that for your blog, aren't you? You're going to take credit, you fucker."
"Yes and yes."
Bringing biscuits in to the lads in the office, Cadbury's Fingers, eating only five and then forgetting where I left them.
The watching of football when I should be covering the driving, two loud hip hip hoorays and arms raised.
Gusts on the quays and me, stood there like a shivering idiot in my summer clothes, waiting forever for a taxi. The arrival home to fish fingers and waffles and warmth and things that need to be washed.
Finally, 'Crazy Heart' and the line about how bad she made that room look, how he didn't realise what a shithole it was until she walked in.