Insomnia; such a nondescript word that means one thing and one thing only. Sufferers simply can't sleep. The door to the mind is stuck fully open. No bloke in top hat and tails, grey pinstripe trousers and shiny shoes is going to close it for you while holding out a hand for a tip. Nope. It remains gaping, like the jaws of a hungry extant archosaurian reptile without a wildebeast in sight.
Unlike Hypochondriacs who have a million deseases at their disposal; probably more now with the advent of Google. Every symptom of every known ailment to man and his imagination can be allowed free rein to torment the staff of medical establishments from Clapham Junction to Ulan Bator, from Haight Ashbury to Melbourne high street and very possibly Skegness..
Then of course there's the Cleptomaniacs. Can't keep their hands of anything that isn't fixed down. But at least they have choices of what they're going to nick and where they're going to nick it from, depending on their mood. They come in all manner of class. From your low life who just wants to cop for a pack or two of Lucky Strikes, to the perfumed high society tart whose one mink coat looked lonely in the wardrobe 'til she discovered free shop 'til you drop.
Not that we poor insomniacs don't have choices. Of course we do. We have ceilings and walls to stare at. We can toss and turn, take a stroll round the bedroom. Check to make sure we've turned the light off to the fish tank. Kick the cat; why should he sleep when we're looking through eyes that feel they're slowly being eaten by giant Jalopéno chillis. Wake up the kid and stick her on her drum kit, let her vibrate the walls, then offer to sell ear plugs to the neighbours.
Nope, Cleptomaniacs and Hydrochondiacs get all the fun. Probably more so if they're blond. I'll bet Cindie Lauper Hypochondriacced the shit out of her doctor and then Cleptoed the hell out the jet set stores on Hollwood Boulevard.
Ah well, I think I'll go back to bed now and see if I can dream of being a sick thief.