A room above the Wetherspoons
Awake, hyperactive and testing my nerves until breaking point
And from the beer garden
The shrill sound of laughter and bottles that smash on the pavement outside
And all the mothers that I meet
Can't quite explain his lack of sleeping
And all the fathers on the chatrooms
Blissfully tired with frayed emotions
But they're somehow relaxed
But he never falls asleep
I can't find the energy
The words that might placate him
And something's going to give at some point
And then through the letterbox
A cold call approach, you know I can't really vouch for the source
Yet someone's listening
And says they can help, you know I can't really turn them away
And though my instinct was to run
I turned up on daytime television
To be ambushed by a friend
A hostile reception
And the main host, a show off by trade
And the researchers didn't care
And the counselors won't listen
The producers chase their ratings
And hung me out to dry
So, what comes next for me?
Left to the judgment of viewers of daytime TV
And as the drinkers drink
I draw down the curtains and reach for the chamomile tea