My husband used to work with a man. One morning, he turned up looking tired and fraught. The cuckoo had been sitting outside his bedroom window, calling since the sun started to rise at 4am. In his sleep deprived state, he regaled us with the tale of his torturous, sleepless week. We laughed at the stories of his attempts to rid himself of the cuckoo, who kept returning, almost mockingly, to disrupt his sleep. I like to think that he was laughing about it too but in reality, I think he was absolutely bone tired and just wanted the cuckoo to *bog off* back to Africa (his words were far more colourful, but you can use your imagination).
My thoughts have turned to him recently as I have found myself caught up in slightly obsessive battles against nature. A one woman battle. The kind of battles that are all consuming and keeping me awake at night. The kind of battles that sound utterly pathetic when I speak them out loud.