Fred has insomnia. All night long he stares at the ceiling hoping he won’t wake up his wife Martha.
Often he takes advantage of his free time by thinking of matters both mundane and profound.
‘Often,’ he tells Martha, ‘I pay our bills, and write letters to friends, and then like a flash, through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings.’
‘Is it Jerry Vale?’ she asks. ‘I saw him once at the Ipswitch Lodge with Corbett Monica.’
‘Very funny,’ he said. ‘I often have those really fine moments, though, so my sleepless nights are not always so boring.’
They then sat down to a fine hearty breakfast. He read the newspaper for a while and went off to work, knowing in advance what the next night would bring him.