Insomnia. It never goes out of fashion and it never comes in. It's just there, leaving a curious taste in the mouth. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, mostly around 2.47am. A few nights ago - or do I mean mornings? - I woke, yet again, at that cursed hour. At 2.50am, after three insomniac minutes that each seemed to last a week, I got out of bed. I staggered into the next room, struggling to avoid the door jambs, and typed the words "famous insomniacs" into a search engine; as if the keeping of celebrity company would somehow ease my plight. But there was no celebrity to keep me company.
Van Gogh, Churchill, Newton, Marilyn Monroe, Cary Grant: none of them was, like me, awake. And then, of course, I came across the name of Michael Jackson. He too had his insomnia cured by permanent long-term kip. What was the cause of his sleeplessness, though? Was it guilt on account of his, ahem, eccentric behaviour with children? Or the pressure of those looming 50 concerts at the O2 Arena?
I went back to bed, shut my eyes and had the following dream: I'm sitting in the O2, restlessly waiting for Michael to appear, when the man next to me starts a slow handclap, punctuated by funky little cries of "Whoo!". He has one black glove and a black armband, as if mourning his own demise. It's Michael, all right. As I stare at him, mesmerised, his black armband slowly turns white. But hold on. Is this really a dream? It's surely too neat, too crafted, too jokey. Nope. This is a waking dream. I'm still awake. Heigh-ho. It's 3.17am.
What, exactly, is keeping me awake? Is it guilt? No, it's definitely pressure. I'm worried about my future earnings, in a world gone to hell. But almost everyone's worried about that and almost everyone sleeps. (You can't tell me only undertakers and Simon Cowell sleep.)
Then there's my article. I'm writing my first ever travel article and I'm not sure I can do it. Ah, diddums. Churchill had the fate of the free world on his mind. He didn't lie awake fretting about his piece in Condé Nast Traveller. No, it's not pressure that's causing my insomnia. It's self-pity. I don't have a proper illness at all. At best, I have what my teenage daughter calls "mansomnia".
On the other hand - 3.39am now - my wife always says she never sleeps through the night. In fact, almost all the women I know say they're insomniacs. When their children were babies, they didn't sleep, for obvious reasons. That initial sleeplessness turned into eternal vigilance.
They lie awake, ready to protect their children, or simply worrying about their children's future. Insomnia's the disease of caring parents. My daughter starts a new school in September. There we are. I've found something new to worry about, something outside myself, something feminised and parental and worthwhile.
Things, at 4.13am, are looking up. There's no shame in my insomnia now, no stigma, any more than there would be if I were an alcoholic. Both are diseases. I should "out" myself, right now, as an insomniac, for the first stage in the cure is to admit the condition. I should wake up my wife - she's probably awake anyway - and say, in a loud and proud voice: "My name's Jon and I'm an insomniac", even though she already knows my name.
But I don't. Insomnia's the misery that doesn't love company. How can you tell someone else you can't sleep? What is that but a guarantee that you won't, in fact, sleep? To admit insomnia is to prolong insomnia. That, at any rate, is how it feels.
No insomniac wants to be in Insomniacs Anonymous, sitting in a church hall with other sufferers, sharing their bug-eyed pain. What would happen if one of your fellow insomniacs nodded off? It would be unspeakably cruel on those left awake.
At 5.22am, I get up and start writing my travel article. Badly. That's the thing about insomnia, though. Eventually, it turns into something wonderful, known as "early rising". To all of you who believe that's true, I have one word to say: zzz.
• Jon Canter is author of A Short Gentleman
