Zombies. I know where they're going to come from. I have unravelled how the apocalypse will befall us. Revitalised dead people? No. Carriers of some mysterious disease, passed on through germ ridden bites? Again, no.
Really, really tired people who've got young children? Yes. As I shambled around the downstairs of my house last night, alternating between bouncing on the Swiss ball (Godsend! Thank you Switzerland!) and singing Soft Kitty (that moment when you realise the only lullaby you know is from a TV programme? Upsetting.) to the beautiful creature I held in my arms, I could sense a change.
I felt fuzzy around the edges. My brain felt as if parts of it were falling away, like the end of a biscuit when you've left it in your tea too long. Or a simile which you couldn't really make work because you were a bit tired.
As I wandered around, inconsolable ball of cute held tight to my chest, I could imagine how I might end up walking out the door and finding all the other parents, drawn together by their shared plight. We would then rampage (slowly) down the street, attacking anyone who looked like they may have had more than a few hours sleep. Maybe we would feast on their brains, to get at the juicy sleep that must surely lie within them. Almost definitely we'd get covered in mud and assorted other muck, our sleep deprived brains would make staying upright a near impossible task.
Yes. Definitely. This was it. Tonight was the night. Zombies were coming and I would lead the charge.
Luckily, before my wobbly brain went any further wrong, Mrs L woke from her slumber and rescued me. We had a loosely sensible adult conversation, without any rhyming couplets, we co-operated to get the little one fed and changed, then settled into a blissful sleep. Then I went to bed. At seven in the morning.
Zombie apocalypse averted for one more night.