A room above the Wetherspoons   Awake, hyperactive and testing my nerves until breaking point   And from the beer garden   The shrill sound of laughter and bottles that smash on the pavement outside      And all the mothers that I meet   Can't quite explain his lack of sleeping   And all the fathers on the chatrooms   Blissfully tired with frayed emotions   But they're somehow relaxed   But he never falls asleep   I can't find the energy   The words that might placate him   And something's going to give at some point      And then through the letterbox   A cold call approach, you know I can't really vouch for the source   Yet someone's listening   And says they can help, you know I can't really turn them away      And though my instinct was to run   I turned up on daytime television   To be ambushed by a friend   A hostile reception   And the main host, a show off by trade   And the researchers didn't care   And the counselors won't listen   The producers chase their ratings   And hung me out to dry      So, what comes next for me?   Left to the judgment of viewers of daytime TV   And as the drinkers drink   I draw down the curtains and reach for the chamomile tea