I have finally entered the age of the nap

My grandfather was an inveterate napper. Even when I was very small and he was in his early seventies, it seemed almost impossible for him to sit in an armchair in the afternoon without eventually falling asleep. By the time he was in his eighties, daytime slumber was just a way of life. On the occasions that he came to our house for lunch, he would spend most of the afternoon gently snoring, given half a chance.

Sometimes, my father – his son – would follow suit. On winter days, with the fire lit, the pair of them would sit on comfortable sofas, talk perhaps for a few minutes, then fall into companionable silence as sleep overtook. My grandmother and my mother might occasionally give their respective husbands a shove, but there was little point really because they would only dose off again.

Insofar as I thought about it at all, I suppose I assumed that grandad was a snoozer simply because he was old, and that dad was taking a chance for some shut-eye because most of the time he worked too hard. It was funny and sweet, and the memory of them drifting off together is especially redolent of the festive period.

Needless to say, it never occurred to me that I would possibly come to share the Gore tendency to nap; at least, not until old age set in. However, not only has the time arrived, I have discovered it to be utterly glorious.

I should perhaps be clear – especially to any colleagues reading this – that I am not quite at the stage when the feeling of a soft cushion beneath my rear end is enough to dispatch me to the land of nod. I don’t take a daily siesta, although I sometimes wonder whether that might be a better way to structure the working day.

So far, there are two particular sets of circumstances highly likely to cause my head to drop to my chest. The first is a train journey, probably in the early morning or the evening, especially when the soporific carriage heating is on. Back when I commuted into London every day, I often fell asleep on the way into town, usually at about the halfway point of the journey – somewhere between Watford and Wembley. It would come gradually, and I would generally be very conscious of the process; so much so that I could pull myself out of it as we rolled into Euston station. Only once or twice did fellow passengers have to tap me on the knee to ensure I got off the train.

The second context in which I find myself invariably dropping off is when watching children’s television with one of my kids. At the point at which I sit down, I don’t feel in the merest bit weary. But irrespective of whether it’s Hey Duggee, Andy’s Dinosaur Adventures or Odd Squad, within a matter of moments I feel my eyelids beginning to droop. The sound of the telly becomes a burble and that wonderful sense of demi-consciousness washes over me.

Regrettably, my children find my diminishing attention infuriating and so I’m lucky to get five winks in, let alone 40, but even a minute of half-sleep is surprisingly refreshing. Margaret Thatcher famously cat-napped in odd moments in the back of her official limo – but that hasn’t put me off the concept.

If I have managed to escape the dreaded Omicron, I may well be dozing in front of my parents’ fire as you read this, full of Christmas leftovers and contentment. My father will almost certainly be napping too. My children will probably be looking on in disgust. But their time will come, and I hope they too will eventually discover the joy of the nap, one of life’s simplest pleasures. Now, if you’ll excuse me…Zzzzzzzzzzz.