The Cult of Sleeping In
originally performed in a Poetry Slam competition in July 2012
I am a high Priestess. The high Priestess of sleeping in. I started a page about it on Wikipedia, At the crack of noon. So it must be true. What gods do I worship? Red Bull, the king of night, Halicon, the queen of slumber Minor deities, Simons, Serta and Sealy of the firm mattress. And the heroes who bring us spoils of their conquests, Delivering heavy curtains, co-ordinated sheet sets, eye shades and a phone that’s silenced with a touch of a button. What rituals do my followers practice? The sacred pulling of the covers over the head, at the sound of church bells, 10 am on a Sunday morn. The hurling of the alarm clock beneath the bed, if ever it erroneously sounds before a respectable pub would open. Feasting on eggs, bacon, toast, and a galloon of coffee, in a chrome-edged diner that serves an ‘all day breakfast’. The sacred objects we revere, those that shall be handled with care, Stored in a hallowed spot, Safe-guarded at all expense: The fuzzy slippers, The soft terry bathrobe. The custom made pillow, And the fluffiest of duvets, so light that it rests on the skin with no more weight than a kiss but bestows the warmth of a sun-baked beach. What do we sacrifice? The right to buy breakfast sandwiches, shop at farm markets, line up for the release of the latest Apple product release. The respect of the god-fearing, The Family people. The Right. No matter that we toil from mid afternoon to midnight. Clearly a good solid days work begins at dawn. Decent folk start things early in the morning. But who are my brethren, those loathsome creatures, lazing away the day, out and about in the night? Cops, nurses, taxi drivers and pizza delivery guys. They serve us all, care for us and keep us safe. And are there, when we need them.