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

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

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

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.

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