Up Early, Awake Late

Apparently the shortest day of the year is coming up. Could have sworn it was today based on the light skies over London at 4.15am, and the birds outside my window, singing like snitches. The red eyes are flying in low over south London and have begun to queue up for Heathrow.

I'm up providing whatever support I can to our man in Vegas covering the World Poker tour at the Mandalay Bay, the furthest casino down on the strip. He does a great job and my input is minimal. But I'm up. The body clock will be fucked for the rest of the week.

I have the TV on for company, but options are short. Big Brother is on, with cameras focused on several strange people sleeping in the dark. Cutting edge. Seems like a bad idea to watch. But it's that or a programme for fat people trying to lose weight. Someone has just lost three pounds. Others are looking on pissed.

Let's see. I can do the same thing tomorrow night, stay up helping out whilst my Editor has an "early" night. Then, I'll ask for Tuesday night off to see my girlfriend. I'll sleep in the day, skip coffee, and wake up dancing at around three. Sounds like a plan.