Alphabetti spaghetti

There's plenty of things to keep a chap awake at night and worrying about the state of the world at the moment. For me, perhaps unsurprisingly, chief amongst these are ecological anxiety and grief: sadness at the thought of what we have lost in terms of habitat and biodiversity, as well as the predicted disastrous consequences of climate change. Further down the list comes war, the cost of living crisis and the fluctuating fortunes of Durham County Cricket Club.

So, in the wee small hours, with gales thrashing the trees outside and rain lashing at the bedroom window, one's mind veers off tangentially to all sorts of distracting thoughts. None of them useful, and all seemingly perfectly-engineered to keep a body in a state of paranoid alertness, rather then pleasant slumber.

One recent night was a case in point, and it must be said that this particular sequence is a recurring one, bringing with it yet further worries of ageing and the possibility of dementia. Isn't it just wonderful what an overactive mind can do during the hours of darkness and semi-consciousness when engaged in the pointless pursuit of sweating the small stuff.

The digital clock on the bedside table glowed, or perhaps glowered, as a constant reminder of precious time being frittered away. Neurons and synapses fired randomly, leading from the front with a scattergun approach. I drifted into a "What was the name of that chap... ?" train of thought, a clear picture of his face in my mind's eye. I was sufficiently compos mentis to realise that although I usually struggle with his forename, tonight it was going to be his surname which evaded me. From the depths of sleeplessness, this seemed like a bit of a win.

I launched into the tried and tested method of going through the alphabet, in an attempt to order my thoughts. After a protracted journey from the letter A, via the surprisingly numerous J's and the echoing corridors of Q, I arrived at the eureka moment of V.

Victor!

So, Victor, his forename is Victor. But could I think of his surname? Nope.

Oh well, then, nothing for it, I suppose...

Victor A... ? Nope.

Victor B... ? Nuh-uh.

Victor C... ? Hmmm, no.

And so forth, until the anticlimactic Victor Z also drew a blank.

I had obviously peaked too soon with my earlier success. Heavy sigh. But hang on, what's this fumbling through the brain fog to emerge as a rallying cry?

K! His surname begins with K!

Yay, this is more like it.

Right, here we go again...

Victor K...A... ? No.

Victor K...E... ? Nah.

Victor K... I... ? Don't think so.

Victor K... L...? Oo, sneaky, I was only expecting vowels!

Victor K... N... ? Hah, no.

Victor K... O... ? Er, hang on... yes!

And just like that the name abseils into my head from nowhere.

It's Victor Kompany, the Belgian footballer who used to play for Manchester City (amongst others) and who now is the manager of Burnley Football Club.

Result!

Maybe now I can get some sleep?

[There is a pause of several fractious seconds]

No, wait, it's Vincent. Vincent Kompany.

My brain does a mindless self-deprecatory eye roll and face palm then skips off, giggling, to find pastures new with which to entertain itself.

Sweet dreams.