Jolting awake, I groan as I look at the clock and realise it’s only 3am. Yet again I’ve woken in the early hours.
It’s unlikely I’ll drift off again now, meaning tomorrow I’ll be tackling another busy day while shattered.
When younger I clocked up eight hours a night. Now, at 47, the pesky perimenopause has hijacked my sleep patterns.
HRT patches curbed the dreaded night sweats but I rarely sleep well. Either my mind is whirring and I can’t nod off or I’m awake before dawn.
Starting my day with three coffees has become standard as I try to jumpstart my body and
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