The point of being alive is being alive. Anything else is just made up

CORNWALL, it’s 10am, my mother’s house. 

I arrived late last night from London and was put in the back bedroom, which is comfortable in every imaginable way apart from the fact that its roof is a local meeting point for the Cornish seagull, an oversized bird infamous for its harsh and penetrating squawk.

But there’s no satisfaction in complaining about a bad night’s sleep to my mother who without complaint, has tackled 20 years of insomnia head-on by listening to the BBC World Service all night, every night, and views sleep as a luxury or even, I sometimes suspect, an indulgence.