Some stores in Elsewhere are offering senior citizens the opportunity to buy groceries and other essentials at special hours. From 6 to 7.30 am, we Greysters can prowl the aisles without competing against younger, more athletic shoppers.

When I mention this to Bins on WhatsApp, he chortles with delight. “Oh-oh-oh,” he says, “poor little Ms M! No more morning dreams! No more snoring inside her nice cosy nest till nine and ten in the morning!” I have never understood why early risers are always so derisive towards their night-owl companions. “Pooh!” I say to him, haughtily. “It’s not that I CAN’T wake up, but that I CHOOSE not to.” “Yah, yah,” he says while continuing to cackle away on his side of the planet.

Muriel calls to fix a time for our next outing. “I’ll leave home at six,” she says, “okay?” That means she’ll be at my door 10 minutes later. “Of course,” I say, “not a problem!” It’s a simple thing, I assure myself. All I need to do is go to bed early. I normally sleep six hours exactly, which means I should shut shop at 11.30 pm. That gives me the necessary Zzzs, plus an extra half hour to brush teeth, drink coffee and compose my mind before heading out.

Alas! Things do not go to plan. It’s a Tuesday night and I have a deadline to meet — indeed, it’s this very column of a week ago. Instead of starting at a reasonable hour, like maybe 7 pm, I watch a serial on Netflix, then play cut-throat rounds of Word With Friends with my sister, then watch another serial until ... oh darn! It’s past midnight! By the time I finally finish my piece and send it off, it’s 3 am.

I can hear Bins’ chuckles sloshing about in my tired brain. I’m too sleepy to even bother cursing him. I set the alarm for 5.30 am. Brush teeth, change into jammies and crawl under my cosy comforter. Barely have I shut my eyes than the alarm is buzzing, flashing and beeping. I crawl out of bed, brush teeth and pull on whatever clothes are in the just-washed pile on the ironing board. I can’t iron anything because my eyes are still shut. But, I tell myself, most seniors have lousy eyesight anyway! So who’s going to notice the wrinkles? No one! Not even me.

I decide against coffee because, if I drink anything just before going out, I’ll want to pee and I don’t dare use a public facility in these germ-laden times. I pull on my shoes, wrap a woolly scarf around my neck, sling my handbag on my shoulder and put on my warm jacket. It’s 10°C outside and there’s a slight drizzle. Muriel arrives exactly on time. I get in her car and, when she asks me how I am, I say, “Great!” Smiling brightly, eyes wide open. But in my head? Fast asleep.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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