I am not someone that screams my way out of my bed, sleep or nightmares. At least not every day. I sleep like a baby mostly. The stubbed toe or the knuckle is often a result of tugging at blankets and turning while sleeping too close to the walls. I am six foot two after all and am bound to hit something even if I were awake. They want me to 'see someone' and do something about 'it'. Today. Bloody cuckoos with their eggs and without a nest of their own.

Over to the wife. She shows me a bruise and tells me, 'you did this.' How do I tell her I was sleeping in the other room? I even have a stubbed toe today, thankfully, and some blood on the wall as alibi. And she won't call the cops on me. I say we can get this sorted out once and for all, but she runs her hand over my shoulder and says, 'It's alright.' Very tactile. I think women fantasise about violence in marriage as much as men do about sex or brawls. Maybe I roll about a little in my sleep and jab her on the odd occasion. I mean, who doesn't? Six foot two, remember? And now she wants me to take her to the hospital. Today.

And then there is the job that puts food on the table, the house around it and the effects. There is the grind - reports to finish, and deadlines to meet. Today. Everyday.

There is the overdue traffic violation fine, the lapsed insurance policy, the missed parent-teacher meeting and people I've not met as promised.

A man only has one nine AM every day and everyone wants a piece of it. Wants? No! Demands. They gather around, turn their gaze in my direction and heckle me hoping I will crack, give in. 'What are your priorities?' reverberates through the room, 'What matters most?' And then they fall silent for a while before circling back.

I can't tell them everything can't be priority. They won't get it -  the life size poster of Tom Sawyer asking for more adorns their walls. The bruises, the bosses, bills, tickets and everything else can wait. I need to do what matters most. Now.

It's time for breakfast.