To an insomniac, a sleeping pill is that – it is relief in pressed powder, bitter as it washes down the throat, and then gentle as it radiates out, loosening the limbs, stopping the relentless intrusion of brain on body.

But – oh, terrible but! For the hardened non-sleeper, whose consciousness is bent on self-sabotage, the pill’s efficacy wanes quickly. After a while, it only gives you a few hours. My pragmatism meets my conservatism – if I am going to get hooked on something and endure the shame of dependency, let it be a substance worth my while!

I talk to my stepmother about my problem. “I have a friend,” she tells me, “who hasn’t slept more than three hours in a row for 30 years.”

“Since her children were born?” I ask.

“Since her children were born,” she confirms, with a grave nod. “She used to fight it,” she continues. “Now she thinks of it as ‘Me time’. No one can bother her. At that hour, she can do whatever she likes, actually.”

An intriguing reframing. What if I rejected sleep as it has rejected me, and did something useful with those hours?

And so I progress through my pandemic nights. I steal out of the bedroom, I look at American Twitter. I watch the world outside my windows, and sometimes I walk. On the streets, particularly during lockdown, there is a compact among night-walkers. We watch the world and respect each other’s privacy.

But mostly, I read, novel after novel after novel, and any loneliness I feel becomes irrelevant. My sleep improves, and it’s like my consciousness is taking a long bath after a dusty trip. I start having dreams that are vivid and entertaining. I won’t disclose their content: other people’s dreams are boring, and besides, I was never convinced dreams are meaningful – surely they are just the waste excreted by the consciousness as it replenishes overnight? The offcuts of a day’s filming?

So, I have become a Dream Person. I have begun to consider my dreams friendly sages who rap on my door and deliver a timely message... but sometimes I miss my insomnia.

I remember a “dream interpretation” book I had as a teenager. To dream of an acacia tree meant death; to dream of a rabbit meant luck. Oh sure, I thought, and what does it mean to dream of Keanu Reeves?

Two things change my mind. Firstly, I re-read Monkey Grip, where Helen Garner details the dreams of her protagonist, Nora. If Garner thinks something is worth paying attention to, pay attention to it. Then I speak to my friend Ben, who is into Carl Jung. Ben says that Jung believed dreams were “pure nature”, revealing stripped-back truth.

So, I have become a Dream Person. I have begun to consider my dreams friendly sages who rap on my door and deliver a timely message. Sometimes I wake up from one pierced by its insight. I need to let such-and-such go, I think. It is that simple. Or: Why not wear the green frock to the wedding? With your Marc Jacobs heels, you can dress it up.

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But sometimes I miss my insomnia.

Here are things you see in the wakeful night: fat hunks of hazy moon, the rise and fall of your daughter’s chest, her retroussé nose in profile; the incontrovertible fact that she is still sucking her thumb. A stranger’s cat loping, shift workers coming home in soft shoes, the weather shaking trees, and the stillness of a garden so alive it feels more like a presence when no one else is there.