IT'S barely nine o'clock and I'm in bed. It's not that I was particularly tired -- no more than I am any other week-night -- but I just thought I would catch up on all the hours I miss, and perhaps even get a few hours in stock. You never know when they might come in handy.

It's something I've been meaning to do for a while but, ironically, just not had the time. The life of a young(ish) professional, living the city-centre life is quite testing as I'm sure you can imagine. And I have got a PlayStation 2,

Nights when I know I could be getting some good old fashioned shut-eye have been spent crouched in front of a flickering TV, light gun in hand, blowing away virtual baddies and saving the virtual world. Or seen me plotting my assault on a virtual league table with my virtual Wigan footie team (which is going very well, since you ask.

A second-leg League Cup semi-final awaits against Sheffield Wednesday when I get home tonight, with a 3-0 advantage in my favour. Then it's back to the bread and butter of Division One and a table-topping clash with Wolves to look forward to. (I'm not a geek though!!)

Even when I do drag myself away and to bed -- coincidentally around the same time when the Long Suffering Marjorie threatens to turn it off before I have saved it -- I still don't get much sleep.

As soon as I close my eyes, thoughts drift to the chances rued by Denis Bergkamp (yes Denis Bergkamp. In a virtual world the Dutch striker plays for Wigan! So does Nigel Martyn) which have cost me dearly. (I'm not a geek though!)

And even if my thoughts are not on the game, the glare of the television screen is burned on my retinas from sitting so close for so many hours. Just like staring at a bright light leaves an image when you turn away, my eyelids replay the night's action, leaving sleep a vain hope. Bedroom boffins recommend eight hours sleep -- which is something I wholly agree with -- but the most I get every night is around six. From Monday to Friday I should have had 40 hours -- in actual fact I managed 30. Somewhere along the line I have lost a full night's sleep. In effect I have stayed up all Thursday night before coming to work.

Napoleon Bonaparte, who was not a good sleeper, famously said "six hours sleep for a man, seven for a woman and eight for a fool." I am that fool.

I try and catch up at weekends but lately I've slept just as less than in the week. The weekend before last I was at my old pal's Fred the Dread's new gaff in Cambridge, staying up into the early hours talking nonsense. The brief snatches of sleep I did manage were more blackouts than battery-charging naps leaving me feeling worse the next day. By the time the weekend had ended, instead of the recommended 56 hours, my calculations stood at around 50. Still a day out.

What I really need to do is take a day off work and spend the full day in bed. Unplug the telephone, disconnect the doorbell and basically hide myself from the world for one full day and watch those sleep-hours tot up. Then, once they are in the bag, I could gradually release them ensuring that, on average, I do get my 56 hours a week. When I've used up my spare sleep-hours (a bit like air-miles) I'll repeat the process again.

Eskimos have it right -- or at least they did until the 1950s. So bored were they with their Arctic winter nights, they would sleep for 14 hours a day, compared with around six hours daily during the continuous summer light. Now they are more Westernised such patterns have gone out of the igloo window but it's something worth thinking about, especially as the winter nights are drawing in.

Still I don't suppose I'd have anywhere to plug my PlayStation 2 in an igloo!