The Battle of the Early Riser...

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Man from Mars and I have mismatched body clocks. Especially when it comes to waking up. We're out of funk. Big time.

On weekdays I wake up without the assistance of an alarm clock. On weekends, I'm ready to roll by 9 am at the absolute latest.

Meanwhile Man from Mars seems to live for the Big Lie In.

On weekdays he's not so bad. Work calls from 3 blocks away and he rolls out of bed relatively quickly. He shuffles into his long pants and slippers and mooches to the kitchen where he slurps down his cereal with his eyes half closed and his hair spiked in all the directions of the compass.

But on weekends nothing, not even my persistent whining (which, let me tell you, is designed to drive even the most saintly person up the wall) can lift his heavy head from the perfect contours of his two pillows. The lure of the porcelain throne is only a temporary interlude to his otherwise blissful sleep.

I tickle his feet, I blow in his ear, I peer up his nostrils, I tug at his hair, I declare that the day is being wasted, I bounce up and down on the bed (the way you're not meant to, it's not a trampoline is what any responsible adult would say), I use my stern principal voice, I pull the doona off, and denounce his hairy legs. All for a response. Any response. The slightest retaliation.

But it's never to be. The most Man from Mars ever does is half open one eye, give a sleepy smile that's meant to rid me of my woes, and reaches out inviting me to partake in a cuddle. All so he can go back to sleep again.

The first 3 times I oblige. After all, cuddles are always nice. But by the fourth time, I have reached the end of my "WAKE UP!" tether and decide to paint my nails. The whiff of nail polish should make him wake up- just like smelling salts are meant to rouse the unconscious-- right? right??

Unfortunately, Man from Mars has a perennially blocked noise. So no, he doesn't really smell the nail polish. He only smells it when he opens his eyes to investigate why I have suddenly gone so quiet. I specifically ask him whether he can smell anything. He sniffs and sniffs and sniffs until finally he detects a diluted whiff of that acrid acrylic smell that girls know too well: "Ohh yeah, I smell it".

That's it. The final straw. Ultimate non reaction. I give up. I am officially exhausted. All I want to do is lie back down and have a little nap.

Meanwhile, Man from Mars has succumbed to my efforts and lurches upright to get up: "You're so bossy" he murmurs.

I frown, he laughs and we both shuffle down the corridor to get some breakfast.