It's a hard life on the dawn patrol

WHEN I told my mum I was going to write for an evening paper where the staff started work as early as 7am she laughed out loud in the most disconcerting way.

She was pleased, of course, that I had got the job, but simply couldn't stifle the mocking chuckle brought on by the thought of me getting up at 7am.

You see, no-one could really accuse me of being an early bird.

Personally, I think getting up in the morning is something you either can or can't do genetically, like a pre-programmed alarm call that wakes up the brain.

The time you can comfortably get up depends on the chromatic time set by your mum and dad.

Now, my mum and grandma are both fully paid up members of the dawn patrol, so I must be cursed with a dominant gene passed on by dad, who is shocking at getting up before noon. For years his first job of the day was to send my brother to the chippy for lunch. It's a perk only bosses enjoy, but I must admit it sounds good to me.

My grandma, especially, would be horrified at the mere thought of a lie-in as she wastes no time lazing in bed, which is fine until she forces her early-morning gusto on you.

My brother and I would spend weeks of our summer holidays at her house dying to go to the toilet because in the time it took to go to the loo grandma would have nipped in and tidied the campbed away.

"Oh," she would say, coyly, "I thought you were up" and I'd be forced to retreat to the bath for an extra hour's sleep. All this preparation in my formative years has done nothing to help with the early mornings of the last few months;

And since I moved in on my own it's got worse, despite the fact I have a double-barrelled alarm clock in the shape of the Radio 1 breakfast show and a noisy cockerel without a snooze control - but regular readers of this column will know all about that already.

Last Thursday I got up 20 minutes early so I could put my washing out and take my wheelie bin to the end of the row.

This week I'm hoping to remember to bring it back before Sunday afternoon because, apart from being embarrassed about it being there so long, someone's stuck a motorbike sticker on the front. I must admit, it corners pretty well on two wheels. Thinking of you WHILE I'm on the subject of the noisy cockerel, it's nice to keep in touch with the Grane Cock Supporters Association who are currently on tour in Ireland.

Their postcard of a group of chickens, entitled Irish Hen Night, was perfectly timed when it arrived last week as their unruly brood had congregated on my back wall. It gave them some comfort to see the card with the message: "We saw this and thought of you". Kiss of death LAST week's pub quiz confession turned out to be the kiss of death for the Wright and Wrong team who were cruelly knocked off the top spot by a group of newcomers who scooped the £4 jackpot.

I have to shoulder much of the blame, I admit, after over-ruling the rest of the team on the name of the busiest theme park in Britain. Four immediately said Blackpool Pleasure Beach but my friend Nicola and I felt sure it was Alton Towers and, as I was writing the answers, I took the decision for myself - only to be proved wrong at the end and subjected to a number of disappointed looks.

I suppose I should have known not to trust Nicola when she shouted out the answer to a meringue-based dessert named after a Russian prince. "Lemon Meringue Pie?" It was all Pavl-over for us!

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.