It's 4 o'clock in the morning and I am having trouble sleeping. I have tried everything- counting sheep, drinking a nice cup of cocoa, and watching QVC (the home shopping channel). But four hours later I'm still no closer to sleeping.
It is as though my body is conspiring against me. I know that if I don't get any sleep I will grace the wards looking like a neutered bunny caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. I am sure to fall asleep or resort to asking a patient to budge up while I slip under the sheets for a kip during an endless medical ward round. Perhaps I will not look too out of place if I stand next to the house officer with the 1970s footballer tight perm. He always looks tired, with his bloodshot eyes and a stream of dried dribble flowing gracefully-no, delicately-down his stubbly