Arriving home after two weeks holidaying on the far side of the world with my better half, I staggered through the door of my apartment, unzipped the suitcase and stood back as underwear in varying degrees of grottiness leapt forth as if possessed of its own life force.

Some of it had been rolled up, stuffed in the deeper recesses of the suitcase and forgotten early in the trip and was particularly suspect. Other pieces had been handwashed and due to inadequate rinsing had stiffened into a cardboard-like consistency, it being necessary to bang them on the wall several times before they were sufficiently pliable to stuff into the washing machine. Several shirts had acquired an impressive array of international stains and probably should have been declared to Her Majesty's Quarantine inspectors at the airport. Unknowingly, I had imported sufficient prohibited foodstuffs in my shirts to earn me several years imprisonment.

The washing machine whirring and whooshing away in the background, I contemplated work on Monday after a three week absence and felt ill. I sat down and contemplated a life without toil. Once the credit card bills from the holiday began arriving, I knew I would be contemplating a life without money, a certainty I immediately pushed to a less brightly lit corner of my mind.

I decided to go to the supermarket, stopping to buy a Lotto ticket with which to finance my life without toil. I bought a few things, lined up at the checkout and fell asleep in the queue. I suspect I was snoring on my feet for I vaguely remember being startled by a snorting, pig-like noise. Given the absence of porkers in the supermarket, I'm reasonably certain it came from me.

I went home and showered the grime of 40 hours of more or less constant travel from my body, noting in the mirror that a steady diet of triple cream cheeses, jam soaked Dutch poffertjes and sugar-laced pastries while I was away had caused me to resemble a pregnant pear.

It was now near dusk and I was celebrating my engagement at a small but exclusive gathering - me and a bottle of beer - when it struck. I have always regarded jet lag as an excuse for people recently returned from exotic locales to bore you rigid with tales of their travel.

   "Oh, the jet lag. I just haven't been able to sleep since I returned from the Maldives and Istanbul and Venice," they moan.
   "Wankers," I would mutter while feigning fascination at the stories of their international peregrinations.

"The telly," I thought as I began to suffer that sense of post-holiday depression which you encounter when after several weeks of care-free self indulgence, you return to the reality of an empty apartment.

I stretched out, flicked the remote control and began channel surfing. My next memory was of waking up on the floor with a wet sensation in my crotch. I'd passed out and slid off the couch, the beer upending into my groin as I did so. This is not a new trick. I'd done it before but never after a mere half bottle. I changed and slid into bed, expecting to sleep for 24 hours. Four hours later, I was wide awake. That is to say I was conscious. My eyes, however, felt as if an unseen force was trying to pull them from my skull.

I drove to work the next morning and all but nodded off at a set of red lights. I'd been in bed all night, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Now I was up and ostensibly awake and all I wanted to do was lie down.

I celebrated my return to work by falling asleep at my desk, head on my chest. No one said anything and I only woke up when I repeated my pig impersonation which made me wonder how often I'd done it before. Perhaps I did it every day and no one had the heart to disturb me.

   "What time is it?" they probably asked.
   "It must be 10am," they would chorus. "Marc's asleep."

This was Monday. By Wednesday I was convinced I had been infected by that parasite which causes sleeping sickness. Every night I'd sleep fitfully, make cups of tea, read and be so tired by dawn I could barely move.

I had a few drinks after work on Wednesday and could have easily assumed the foetal position on the floor of the bar and passed out. I compromised by falling asleep while standing up and holding a glass. I don't know how long I was out for but, to my credit, I didn't spill a drop.

"Perhaps," I thought, "I'm on to something here." I could go out all night, only pay for one drink, save an ice bucket full of money and never suffer a hangover. On the downside, I expect my circle of friends would slowly diminish as one by one they tired of being in the company of someone whose eyes remained closed all evening and whose only contribution to the conversation was the occasional "Ooooooorrrrrrffffk!" followed by a startled gasp.