I did something on Sunday night that was equal parts shocking and amazing, for me and those who know me well: I was in bed before midnight.
Anyone who likes to be in bed two or three hours before the witching hour will be shaking their heads in puzzlement, but night owls will be nodding in complete understanding. A midnight bedtime is early for me; most nights I’m up until 1 a.m. or even later. And I don’t mean “up” as in lying in bed trying to get to sleep; I mean up and doing things, whether it’s watching something on TV, catching up on emails, working, reading, doing the Guardian crossword puzzle (the relatively straightforward one, not the cryptic version), or just playing with the cat, who is similarly awake and alert at that late hour and happy to keep me company if it means treats and scratches.
Trying to explain the joy of being up late to a habitual morning person is well-nigh impossible, as larks and nightingales speak different languages, but I’ll try. First, however, I must note that I have been a night owl since I was 12 years old, and stayed up until 2:30 a.m. to watch the 1939 film version of The Hound of the Baskervilles, starring the great Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce, on TV. I was a budding Sherlockian, and was desperate to see the movie, and in those pre-VCR/DVD/streaming days you were at the mercy of the TV schedule. The movie didn’t start until 12:30 a.m., and if I wanted to see it (and oh, how I longed to see it), I had no choice but to stay up into the wee small hours.
It was wonderful.
I had never been up that late before, and the house was quiet and dark. I did not live in a particularly noisy household, but the dark delicious silence, tinged with a faint air of mystery, of possibility, was a revelation, and I wanted more of it. The workaday world of bustle and noise had faded away, and I — a solitary child by nature — could be alone without explanation or justification. It was an immensely freeing feeling, and even though I did not at that time have a name for it, I knew I was a night owl.
The best job I ever had, in many ways, was working graveyard shift at what was then the Delta Airport Inn in Richmond. I was in my early 20s and single, and the hours — 11:30 p.m. to 8 a.m. the next day — suited me perfectly. The worst job, at least in terms of hours? Doing relief dispatch for School District No. 74. I enjoyed the work itself, and my co-workers were wonderful people, but the nature of the job — which entailed finding out which staff members would be absent that day, and finding replacements — meant that it started early in the morning.
How early? Very. I was there at 6 a.m. five days a week, meaning I was out of bed no later than 5 a.m., and I am still not quite sure how I managed it for three years. I did not even get to enjoy one of the main benefits of early rising, which is the beautiful sunrises, as I was tucked inside an office with no window.
It’s unfortunate that night owls get a bad rap, or at least don’t get the plaudits that morning people do. We all know “Early to bed, early to rise / Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise” and “The early bird gets the worm” and similar words of praise for early risers, but I can’t think of anything that speaks in favour of those who prefer to be heading to bed scant hours before most people are waking up.
Birds of my feather must be content with relishing the late-night silence, the peace of solitude, the preternatural calm of the landscape bathed in moonlight rather than sunshine. I know that early morning has its joys, and that sunrises are glorious things. I’ll remain content to enjoy them in pictures posted by my early bird friends, perusing them late at night in peace and quiet.
