Daddy Cool: 'We could have banned them from our sleeping space'

I WAS thrilled to read recently that lack of sleep leads to an early grave. Given that most mornings I grumpily wake thinking death would come as a sweet release from this vale of tears, before cursing impotently at vengeful gods who have spared me for another day, this was welcome news.

Boffins in the UK and Italy are now warning that people who regularly sleep for fewer than six hours a night are 12 per cent more likely to die over a 25-year period than those who spend up to eight hours in the land of nod.

If these findings are accurate, then by my calculations I should be pushing up the daisies sometime after this afternoon's omnibus edition of EastEnders and before the final credits for Songs Of Praise.

Ever since our eldest child entered this cruel world one balmy Hong Kong evening almost eight years ago, an uninterrupted night's kip has remained frustratingly unattainable. First came the early months of sleep-shattering mewing from the Moses basket, then the haunting wails from the cot, before the somnambulant toddler decided mummy and daddy's big bed provided a much more inviting environment for writhing and wriggling throughout the wee small hours – night after night after night…

After a couple of years of this nocturnal pantomime, number one son was evicted – only to be replaced by his baby brother. Predictably, much the same routine was established when their little sister appeared on the scene.

I have vague memories of being a nipper several decades ago and shrilly singing, "There were three in the bed and the little one said roll over, roll over!" as my parents attempted to catch some shut-eye of a Sunday morning. Now the tables have turned, and of the five who "all roll over" in our bed on rare days off work and school, the "one fell out" role is invariably occupied by me – helped on my way by three giggling infants with not so gentle assistance from Mummy Cool's firmly prodded elbow.

I guess we could have been a bit stricter and banned the little mites from sharing our sleeping space – some parents I've spoken to all but erect a G8 summit-style ring of steel around their rooms to protect their precious slumber. But sometimes the touch of the chilliest tiny tootsies, whatever the time of night, can warm the coldest heart. Oh my God, did I really just write that? I'd better lie down – I must be suffering from a little sleep deprivation.

• This article was first published in Scotland on Sunday on 23 May.