Stories:

• Rik Mayall’s story
• Anthony Horowitz’s story
• Sir Ranulph Fiennes’s story

Written by Meera Syal

Me and my Goldfish haven't slept well for two years. We know if you're not a member of the sleep deprived parents' club, you may not want to read any further.

We cannot relate to you blessed few, with your bright shiny eyes, your clear unblemished skin, your blossoming social lives and cheery family breakfasts around the pine kitchen table. Not for you the slow morning shuffle of what passes for breakfast, mashing banana to the plinky plonky tape of The Wheels On The Bus, (because at least that keeps the little darling happy and quiet, though Goldfish much prefers the Christmas hits of the Teletubbies. Each to their own). Not for you smug sleepers the surreal zombiefied commute to work, where every seat looks like a duvet and every stranger's shoulder an invitation to curl up and have a crafty snooze.

Going out? Oh no, we don't go out and actually have fun, because calculating backwards, we'd be getting in say, eleven thirty, late for us, which only leaves us maybe two or three hours before the nocturnal torture begins, really not worth it but thanks for the offer.

Oh you want to come over for dinner? Lovely, as long as you don't arrive before 8.30 or possibly 9pm, that's when the child may have slept, and do you mind leaving by ten? It's just that we'll have to sleep too. Me fitfully, wrapped in my nest of blankets, ears half pricked for the first whimperings from next door.

Goldfish has it slightly better, suspended in water far away from the bedroom, immobile and yet still awake, unblinking, waiting like me to be jerked awake from the ocean bed of slumber by a cruel fish hook of waa-waa wailing, dragged protesting through shades of black and blue until we're beached floundering and gasping at the time illuminated on the alarm clock. 2.30am, 3.40, 4.15, does it matter? Lights go on, fins start moving, we're up, and almost every night, it's the same thing. And has been for two years.

Ah, we've shared some long dark nights of the sole together. When the whole of the house is blissfully napping in the land of nod, we are awake and together, pacing, rocking, singing, pleading, wondering, what went wrong? It's the first question on our lips when we meet anyone with a child vaguely the same age.

“Um, does he/she, sleep through?” Those that answer perkily, “Oh gosh yes, since Fenella/Jack was six weeks old! Like a log! Why, doesn't yours?” You mumble an embarrassed “Not really” and move away quickly before succumbing to the violent urge to stab them with a teething ring. I purse my lips, Goldfish blows raspberries contemptuously underwater, we have nothing more to say, they are not of our tribe.

But ah! When you actually meet the parent that will confess, in similarly embarrassed hushed tones that yes, they do actually have a spot of night bother with their offspring, and it's like meeting an old friend, a fellow sufferer whose hollow eyes and trembling hands mirror yours. Actually we guessed pretty immediately who our lost tribe members were, the ones who grabbed the comfy sofa in the corner on arrival and asked for a large camomile tea in quavering voices, the ones who upon entering announced they would be going around 9.30, just before the main course.

I've never actually attended an AA meeting, (Goldfish says me neither but I have my suspicions), but I imagine that moment when you stand up and announce to a room full of strangers that you do have a secret shameful problem and unburden it you must, is a moment of great relief and revelation. It's like that, meeting another parent who like you, has failed in one of the most basic duties, to bring up a child who can sleep, well, like a baby.

Goldfish has told me over and over again, there's no need to feel ashamed but I do. Why, I tell fishy friend, there's no excuse nowadays, not with the plethora of child rearing experts and their accompanying books who will assure you that their method is the one that really works, and haven't you seen me try them all? He has watched with kindly amusement as I tried the hippy/tribal approach, where your infant must be strapped 24/7 to your bosom and thus nap when he wants, to his own natural rhythms, never mind you might have to say, go to the shops or have a poo.

Goldfish quietly observed when I then tried the old fashioned/nanny knows best way, where you show baby who's boss by letting them cry it out until they jolly well fall asleep and let the grown ups get on with catching up with X Factor and a bottle of Beaujolais.

Goldfish suggested and provided me with lots of other strategies for helping baby sleep; the blackout blinds, the nightlights, the lavender oil, the machines that play womb noises and dolphins warbling lullabies gently into baby's ear, (though according to Goldfish, who knows about these things, the dolphins were just actually chatting about Liverpool's chances in the European Cup).
Goldfish even stumped up for baby massage classes and a consultation from a paediatrician approved sleep clinic. We followed the strict schedule, Goldfish and I. Worked for us, we were knackered all the time. Baby, unfortunately, wasn't.

There was one evening, one bad evening where it was just us listening to the angry symphony

through the baby monitor when I asked, what now? What happens when you have tried everything? What happens when you've exhausted every method and you're just left exhausted, depressed, and guilty for occasionally wishing for your old life back, where you could go to bed and just stay there until you felt like getting up? There, doesn't that sound like the most simple wish in the world? Goldfish agreed, it did. And then wisely added, isn't that often the way, it's the simple things you take for granted and get most pleasure from? Never mind the Tiffany jewellery and the Caribbean holidays, what are they compared to good health, dear friends and a lover's smile? At least I think that's what Goldfish said,
I can't actually remember as I fell asleep into a half eaten bowl of biryani.

But we never gave up, searching for that miracle cure and then one day, we took baby for a usual walk in the park and got chatting to another mother near the swings. I hadn't wanted to initially, she looked too good to be a member of the SDP, (not the political party, the Sleep Deprived Parent party), her clothes were vaguely ironed, they didn't have Calpol down them, there were no purple hollows under her eyes and she smiled without looking brave. But Goldfish told me off for being a grumpy old cow and to make some kind of effort and as it turned out, she had indeed had a child who for two years hadn't slept much, and there he was, pushing other kids off the slide and looking happy and well rested besides. “Cranial Osteopathy” she whispered to me, passing on the holy grail of a secret.
I sighed. Add it to the list, I thought. “No really” she said, “I tried everything and three sessions, and Will was like a different child.” Yeah, whatever, I thought. Goldfish prodded me with a spiky fin, Take Down The Number! So I did. “Only 40 quid a session!” she smiled. “Not much to pay for getting your sleep back” whispered Goldfish. Yes, alright! So I rang, I made an appointment, we all turned up, me, baby and Goldfish, expecting nothing.

The cranial osteopath handled my child like antique china, she was calm and smiley and laid her hands very gently on his head, less like massage, more like a reassuring stroke. 40 quid for stroking? But Goldfish shushed me, told me to give it a chance. So we went back three times. And two nights after that final session?

Shamefully, I have forgotten the date, Goldfish will probably remember, but I know it was November. I know when I opened my eyes, the room felt warm. Or maybe it was my heart spreading joy around a body that had lain in its bed for 7 and a half hours without moving. And next door, through the monitor, the precious part of my heart snuffled gently, just easing himself into the day. Downstairs, Goldfish had sneaked the Teletubbies on, more out of nostalgia than need. If I could remember the actual date, it could be renamed by decree as Slumber Day. As it is, I will just mark it quietly as the day me and my Goldfish slept well for the first time in two years.