They may behave like busy elves, working industriously during each night, or at least part of every night – when the tide is low, but, actually, they are big hunky workmen dressed in orange overalls (as I have mentioned many times before). And yes, they are our heroes for they are repairing the stricken sea wall just along from our house, and we are extremely grateful; however, the generators (which have grown in number) and the lights and machinery (which also has increased) are kept, not only on the rig, but also on the stretch of sea wall directly in front of our house. Hence, I’m finding it difficult to sleep. Even Chris, who is a tad deaf, is having trouble sleeping, which, on the plus side, means that he’s not snoring as much; and I can count on him for consolation in the early hours when the activity outside seems to be at its most turbulent.

Last Saturday Chris and I were having dinner with our friends, Alan and his daughter, Caroline, who live two doors up from us on our Victorian terrace, when I happened to mention our little sleeping problem.

“I don’t suppose it’s quite so bad for you, being a little farther along?” I queried between yawns.

“What are you talking about?” Alan snapped into life (having, hitherto, nearly nodded off during the lasagna course). “The worst of it comes from right in front of our house!”

“Oh yes, that big blue generator is perhaps nearer your house,” I conceded, too tired to argue over the exact location of the greatest source of disturbance.

“Of course, my bedroom is on the storey above yours so it may be worse for you on the ground floor,” Alan, weary again, passed the conversation back to me and yawned behind his napkin.

I nodded.

“What about you? How are you sleeping?” I turned to Caroline.

“Me?” Caroline laughed so perkily, and infectiously, that Chris woke up and laughed too.

“Yes, how about you?” Chris joined in (well, Caroline is a stunner).

“I’m fine because my bedroom is on the other side of the house,” she reminded us.

And bubbly Caroline held centre stage, keeping us all amused and awake until it was time for us to leave a little earlier than we might have, had we not been so tired.

That night we slept reasonably well, mostly due to the sheer exhaustion of not sleeping more than two hours the night before, and maybe also because the elves in orange had a night off (or was it that we were so tired we didn’t notice them?). However, even with one relatively early and peaceful night under our belts, we had not caught up from the lack of sleep over a particularly bad week in the sleep stakes (not to be confused with sweepstakes).

The following afternoon, while I was hoping for inspiration and staring blankly at my computer screen, my friend, Catherine, who lives at the end of our terrace, tapped on my studio door.

“Come in and have a cup of tea,” I invited.

Like me, she was rather pale but with dark rings around her eyes. We both looked like Henri Charriere (Papillion) after five years in solitary confinement.

“Ah, you can’t sleep either?” Catherine asked.

“No, but I thought it might have been better for you, being that bit farther down from all the hubbub and lights…”

“What are you talking about? We have the worst of it outside our house…”

And here are some photographs, taken this morning, of the elves in orange…