A #Bristol Blogger's Guide to Becoming a Lab Animal: Sleep Medication Adventures in the West Country.

A Bristol Resident's Honest Experience with Daridorexant (Quviviq): Real Side Effects, Surreal Adventures, and What Your GP Won't Tell You About Sleep Medication.

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If, at any point, a reader concludes that they have some idea of what I’m talking about, generally speaking, you know, feel free to tell me, by all means. Fellow Bristolians experiencing similar pharmaceutical adventures are particularly welcome to chime in.

Because, so far, over the past week or so, I’ve managed to somehow reinvent myself as a lab animal. Somewhere in the haze of recent existence, I successfully dodged Gabapentin, found myself prescribed multivitamins, informed that I have gallstones, and ended up in an even more surreal world than normal, as if I’d had a complete spice smoking blowout.

I can only describe it as being present, but not quite. So, exactly how I’m managing to string a sentence, let alone a paragraph, leads me to believe I must have switched autopilot on in anticipation of an assumed Plan B, if all went belly up.

Now, it somehow makes sense that I should at least go some way towards explaining this state of whatever it is that I cannot explain, or, just about. It all began when, on a phone call with my excellent GP, it was suggested I try a new kind of ‘wonder-drug’ as a Gabapentin replacement for my long-term lack of quality sleep issue, due to my mind firing on all metaphorical cylinders, when, like the vast majority of others, I should be well into the land of nod.

Now, it’s not that this supposed wonder-drug was the catalyst for my current condition, quite the opposite, in fact, because within no time of my head hitting the pillow I was out like the proverbial light! Daridorexant, as it’s known by, I have to say, is absolutely brilliant. Though not so much if you want to get through the next day without feeling as if you could nod off while being in standing, sitting, or walking mode. Maybe it was just me, catching up on years of lost sleep.

The world outside, once a frenetic symphony of sirens and stressed-out people, has now taken on the blurry, soft-focus quality of a dream. My local Sainsbury’s (the one near Cabot Circus, if you’re wondering), for instance, is no longer an assault course of unwritten rules and passive-aggressive student jousting. Instead, it’s become a mystical, fluorescent-lit labyrinth. I’ll drift past the cereal aisle, mesmerised by the sheer variety, only to emerge in the frozen foods section with no memory of how I got there, clutching a bag of hash browns and a profound sense of spiritual fulfilment.

This newfound reality is all about the little things. Specifically, the little things that my brain now refuses to acknowledge. For example, my keys. I’ll put them down, turn around, and they’ve simply ceased to exist. Not in a “I can’t find them” way, but in a “did I ever even have keys?” way. It’s like my life is a poorly edited film, full of jump cuts and inexplicable plot holes. The other day, I was halfway through making a sandwich and found myself on the sofa, staring at a blank wall. It was a perfectly good sandwich, too. I had become a passenger in my own life.

Which brings me to how Bristol’s recent public art trail featuring Wallace and Gromit sculptures somehow morphed into the main characters in a bizarre, modern-day remake of ‘The Life of Brian!’ It seems my medicated brain decided that our beloved cheese-loving inventor and his loyal dog belonged in first-century Judea. (The crowd begins to chant, “He is the sign! The dog is the sign!”)

(The scene opens on a dusty Judean hillside. A small crowd has gathered, not for a sermon, but to gawk at a peculiar contraption made of timber and what appears to be a salvaged chariot wheel. At the centre stands Brianus, a man with a surprisingly cheerful disposition for someone in the Levant, who is adjusting his trousers. His silent, long-suffering dog, Gromith, stands beside him, one paw on his forehead.)

BRIANUS: (To the crowd) Right then, lads! Settle down, settle down. It’s not magic, it’s just science! A bit of cogs, a bit of sprockets, and presto! The Automated Loaf-Slicer and Cheesy Wotsit Dispenser.

(He pulls a lever. The machine groans and whirs. It spits out a single, perfectly sliced loaf of bread, followed by a shower of small, orange, crunchy objects that land directly on a man’s head.)

MAN IN CROWD: It’s a miracle! Bread and... something else! From the heavens!

SECOND MAN: The prophet has returned! He makes manna that tastes of... paprika!

BRIANUS: (Frantically) No, no, it’s not manna! They’re called “Wotsits”! They’re... ah... they’re a bit of a work in progress.

(A woman, her eyes wide with fervour, falls to her knees.)

WOMAN: Tell us, master, what is the secret of the cheese?

BRIANUS: Well, it’s mostly a proprietary blend of whey and a bit of... food colouring. Honestly, if you’d just get a proper dairy, you could do it yourself!

(Gromith sighs so profoundly that a small cloud of dust rises from the ground.)

The Roman Trouble CENTURION TITUS FLACCUS: (A burly Roman approaches with two legionaries. He’s looking at a clipboard.) Right then, who’s the Messiah round here? We’ve had complaints of unlicensed public gatherings and the unlawful distribution of unclassified food items. Is it you?

BRIANUS: (Gesturing to his dog) No, no! You’ve got it all wrong. It’s him, really. He’s the brains of the operation. I just press the buttons.

(The Centurion stares at Gromith, who gives him a single, resigned eye-roll.)

CENTURION TITUS FLACCUS: The dog? Right. Well, is he licensed to operate a dairy contraption? I need to see the paperwork. We can’t have dogs running around dispensing... whatever that orange stuff is. Public health hazard.

(Gromith simply shrugs and points to a sign he’s just held up on a stick: ‘Crucifixion Queue Here.’)

BRIANUS: (Under his breath to Gromith) Oh, great. This is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into.

CENTURION TITUS FLACCUS: Right, that’s it! Unauthorised signs, unlicensed gatherings, and now a dog acting as a public food vendor. You’re going to the... what’s it called... the Crucifixion Department! And don’t think you can get out of this one, the paperwork is a nightmare.

Now, far from suggesting this new wonder-drug was the cause of this scenario, and although I didn’t bother looking into any potential side effects, I’m pretty damn sure there was no mention of either the ‘Life of Brian’ or Wallace and Gromit in the patient information leaflet. Or, what to do should you develop the ability to communicate exclusively through the subtle eye-rolls of a claymation dog created right here in Bristol by Nick Park. There was definitely nothing about the potential to feel a “profound spiritual fulfilment” from a bag of hash browns in the frozen aisle of Sainsbury’s, or a complete inability to find your keys while under the delusion you’re in a poorly edited film. I’d have remembered that. Or, at least I hope I’d have remembered. Though I can’t be entirely sure, truth be told, and as they say in BBC broadcast notice language, ‘Please do not adjust your set. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.’

If you’re a fellow Bristol resident navigating similar pharmaceutical adventures, or if you’ve spotted any of the Wallace and Gromit sculptures while feeling mysteriously enlightened by frozen potato products, I’d love to hear from you. After all, there’s nothing quite like shared experiences of medical comedy to bring a community together – especially when that community happens to be in the brilliant, bizarre city of Bristol.