It is unsurprising that between the concoction of pain, minimal mobile exertion and anxiety, sleep does not befall me rapidly. The grandfather clock downstairs enjoys teasing me about my insomnia by relentlessly ringing every hour, just to remind me that another sleepless one has passed. Time does pass far more slowly in the early hours of the morning, and this insomnia could have potentially transformed me into the phantom of bad vertebra (I apologise for the terrible pun). However, I can only attribute my lack of agitation to the wonderful dulcet tones of my bedtime companion, Stephen.
For those who are thinking that the Stephen I write of is my fantastic father, I shall have to disappoint. My Stephen, transports me away from the muggle world to a magical one, where a flick of a wand by Madame Pomfrey and my back would be as good as new. It is, of course, the wonderful Stephen Fry that I write of. His voice manages to be both exciting and soothing to my ears, and even, on occasion, can act as a lullaby. The fact that I, unlike poor Professor Lupin, do not morph into a werewolf at the sight of the moon is a testament to the prodigious power of the audiobook. This modern invention is presently providing me access to the world of literature, which the medication I am on is so desperately trying to deny me.