Captain Midnight here, Companion of the Bedchamber.
Which is a pretty tough job, especially when your human fancies himself as a writer. Most sensible people work during the day and sleep at night, but apparently Himself has to follow the muse, whatever that means. I can tell you that it involves sitting with a constipated look on his face in front of a blank screen, tapping aimlessly at the keyboard during the hours of darkness and crashing out on the office sofa-bed once the sun gets up.
I have tried to explain that the most productive writers get up early in the morning and crack on for a few hours until about mid-day, when they invariably go for a long walk with their canine companion, but he doesn’t listen to me. Consequently, I have to hang around all night offering moral support, and then lollop on the bed with my circadian rhythms all to cock while he gets some shut-eye.
Of course, it’s my job to make him feel alright, but to paraphrase the immortal Lennon and McCartney, I’ve been working like a dog when I should have been sleeping like a log. I think I’ll wake him up soon to make my breakfast.
Comfy bed though. Maybe I’ll get 40 winks first.
Coming Home to Story 