Perhaps it was the pandemic, or hitting my mid-forties, or excessive phone scrolling from bed, paired with the fact that my children got older and there was no real need for me to get out of bed to fix anyone a bowl of Weetabix anymore. Whatever the reasons, a few years ago I stopped being a morning person.

I’m not sure I agree that we are all one thing (a man’s man, a woman’s woman, a train person, a dog person, a cat person, an extrovert, an introvert, a lacy-knicker type of gal, a cotton boxer type of guy – surely we all mix it up a bit?). But I always was a morning person – ask my best friend.

Even as teenagers after we’d gone out galivanting in Soho till the birds were singing, I’d try to start a conversation with him after only a couple of hours’ sleep. No wonder he was reluctant for me to ever stay over at his place, because as soon as I woke up, I wanted to go over the previous evening’s events. I was too impatient for him to properly open his eyes. I never needed to warm up to the day because I was ready to go as soon as any light cracked through the blind, and selfishly, I didn’t understand why my best friend wasn’t the same.

Waking early served me well when I had my daughter in my early twenties. She was up all night, and at around 6am we’d properly start our day. We went on holiday to Ibiza once, and we were the first on the beach for hours. Just me, baby, and the pushchair, watching the great unwashed and hungover crawling on to the beach at around midday.

Back at home, I started to seek out Sunday morning carboots, and I was among the first to arrive with my young daughter in her pushchair, who would be kept quiet for over an hour with a croissant.

By 8am I’d bagged all the best stuff, and by 9am we were home. As an early riser I feel I’ve haven’t tapped into my full career potential – as a milkman, a florist, a breakfast radio presenter, a fishmonger, a postie.

But like I said, a few years ago, I started staying in bed in the mornings. Something that I felt was hard-wired in me, changed. When people ask: “What did the pandemic do to you?” I can say with absolute certainty that it fucked with my body clock. And looking around, at those whose lives really changed in big, often horrible ways, I got off easily. But still, it annoyed me that I’d lost my spark in the mornings. That even at 8.30am on a weekday, there was a nagging feeling that it was way too early to do anything.

It’s nearly 9am as I write this. You might argue that if I were truly a morning person once again, surely I’d be in the park, breathing in the blossomy air, looking out onto the green meadowland, the pale blue sky. Steady on. Mostly, it’s a feeling that’s creeping over me. One that says:

You are a morning person. Because although at 7am you might not be doing anything other than sitting up in bed, or feeding the cat, or making coffee one-handed as you cradle Ray, you feel happiest in the morning, in the kitchen.

This morning Ray is out with Joab buying bread and that’s why I’m still in bed, eating a chocolate malted milk biscuit. Recently a health visitor suggested that I create a little box of treats for myself so that when Joab’s at work, and I’m alone in the house, breastfeeding, hungry, tired, I can just reach into the box, and with the magic touch of Paul Daniels, pull out a biscuit, a Malteser, or a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.

I have run wild with this suggestion and created many snack piles (I don’t have enough boxes), one or two in every room I frequent, so that whenever I’m peckish I’m never more than an arm’s length from a snack. I think I’ll continue with this beyond the new baby and breastfeeding. It’ll become a way to live. Snack well, live happily ever after.

I want to say thanks to Ray, because he’s rekindled my love of early mornings. Even if I don’t love the midnight, 2am, 4am and 5am feeds, (because oh, how Ray has inherited his love of snacking from me) I am grateful, because facing the inevitable cracks of dawn head on over the next few years won’t feel so painful.

Perhaps my enthusiasm is helped by the fact it’s now spring. But even in winter, there’s something skin-tinglingly pleasing about being the first person up in the house. Light a candle, put the nice side light on, play your favourite song and make some toast and a coffee just for you. Why not?

Clover, who writes over here, lights candles at her kitchen table every morning before her children wake. It sets her up for writing. I love this. Whatever the season or occasion, you can create the mood to match.

Austin Kleon (an author on creativity, who writes a great ‘10 things’ newsletter every Friday) said this about being on his bike:

“It’s not that riding my bike makes me feel like I’m 10 years old again — it’s that riding my bike makes me feel the way I wanted to feel when I was 10 years old.”

It’s how I feel about being awake and very much in the world, early, again. When I was 10 years old and I woke at 6am and my parents and siblings slept on, I was alone, yet confined to the house. I couldn’t go wandering.

Now I’m an adult I can do what the hell I want. I can pace the park with the pram, or stop at a bench to send a friend a voicenote or do absolutely nothing. Hell, I can even walk around Sainsbury’s in Tulse Hill eating a Snickers bar at 7am, wondering what to make for dinner. Because I am an adult.

I must stop writing now because I can hear Ray crying downstairs. He is obviously frustrated to be back from the bakery and inside once more. Time for me to go downstairs, put the coffee on, and hold the baby so Joab can crack on with work.

Are you more of a morning or evening person? Has this changed over time? What’s your favourite time of the day? When do you get most things done?

PS. Tongue-tie/sore nipple/breastfeeding update for anyone who wants to know: Ray had his tongue-tie release procedure last week in a tiny clinic run by a very experienced paediatric surgeon with coffee breath. The procedure was not as traumatic as I thought it would be (the poo Ray did beforehand, that managed to bypass the nappy and his babygro and shoot straight out onto the floor and onto Joab and me) was far more dramatic.

Feeding has certainly improved, helped by a very knowledgeable lactation consultant who helped Ray to latch properly after the procedure. Fingers crossed my nipple is on the road to recovery. It still looks like it’s been in a fight with some sandpaper, but it feels a lot better. Woohoo!