Hanging Around The Immaculate Tower
One doesn’t like to grouse, but some nights – most nights, dammit – going to bed is as pointless as a professional football contract. I know the science fellers and fellerettes are convinced we all evolved out of monkeys’ arses or whathaveyer, but I feel sure my bloodline took a diversion through the primordial belfry – that is to say, evolutions’s Chiropteran nursery – because it’s so much easier to sleep when one isn’t supposed to. Y’Lord could easily dispense with conscious daytime activities altogether. There’s clearly a nocturnal tendency in these genes. In fact, I have it on good authority that some of Lord Immaculate’s ancestors were definitively bats.
Now if only I could arrange to pay my sleep debts in a hot, crowded theatre, ideally during a performance of Hamlet, I know I would nod off in no time at all. Sadly even the bedrooms at Immaculate Tower don’t have the kind of space to accommodate a stage, an auditorium, and the combined egos of a troupe of Shakespearean actors, so I have to make do with the sound of passing drunks like everyone else. Nightcap, anyone?
Lord Immaculate: a creature of the night. And a raised finger to the day.