For years, I have been trying to score the perfect night’s sleep in the face of a body clock that perks me up like a hyper-alert raccoon the moment the sun goes down, and a career that demands serious mental acuity. I would love to have the carefree sleep of my borderline-narcoleptic mother, to be able to drift into oblivion anywhere, any time. Instead, I have a distinctly unpoetic relationship with an array of devices that make up my bedtime ritual. Electric toothbrush. Useless scented candle. Satin eyemask. Silicone earplugs. Acrylic biteguards. Memory-foam pillow.

I have tried cutting down on the blue-light brain poison of a scrolling Twitter feed and clamping down on disruptive feline co-sleeping. I used a sleep-tracking app for a while, until I realised that keeping a phone in my bed, connected to the entire, exciting world in all its timezones, was a big mistake. I ditched it, but only after learning that I require seven and half hours’ sleep. This magic number has become an obsession, as I run tense calculations of my projected sleep quota every time I get into bed. I have even tried waking up at my usual weekday time of 6am at weekends to avoid “social jetlag”, but it made me feel like the pig in the cage in that Radiohead song.

Now I have accepted that mornings will always be gruelling for an owl who desperately wants to be a lark. I am also a firm believer in quality over quantity, and have discovered that the two things guaranteed to send me into a deep slumber are 1) going for a swim, and 2) a book called We Have Never Been Modern by Bruno Latour. I keep this slim volume permanently by my bedside, and while it is meant to be fascinating, I couldn’t comment, because I have never managed to get past page two.

I am also a seasoned snoozer. Snoozing is an appalling act of self-deception that does nothing but prolong the inevitable horror of getting up. I am currently trialling a zero-tolerance policy on bed relapses.

My sunrise-simulating alarm clock has helped ease grim winter mornings with a golden glow, but I still rely on a back-up alarm. Putting it on the other side of the room has ultimately been pointless, though, because I have adapted the ability to roll out of bed, lurch over, zombie-style, and switch it off without so much as dropping a Zzz.

Farrah Jarral is a GP and broadcaster.