The age of insomnia with the internet and 24-hour news will be the death of us Why do we do it? Because we can. And because the world, increasingly, makes no distinction between day and night; it's like a gigantic casino with a special licence to keep the dice perpetually rolling. The Sainsbury's down the road from our house is open until 11pm. The internet is open all hours. News rolls round the clock, popping out headlines. A new EU ruling means pilots could be flying planes after 22 hours already on duty. Fresh-faced interns at investment banks are expected to out-stay the boss, sometimes reportedly being taxi-ed home for a quick shower and change before being transported back to the office. The idea of "office hours" is a busted flush; friends working for international firms speak of demands for video conferences late at night and before breakfast in the morning. America's awake! Australia's awake! Where are you? If you need more time, carve it out of the night: sleep is for cissies. Except it isn't, really. Not only does enough sleep make us saner, sharper and happier, but a regular shortage of it is linked to illness. An experiment at the University of Surrey's Sleep Research Centre found that just an hour more sleep - from six and a half to seven and a half hours a night - decreased the activity of genes linked to inflammation, diabetes and cancer. Sleep remains, of course, one of the most pleasurable of human activities, this mysterious, renewing trance that permits us to survive. If the reluctant lark is to prosper, I realise what I must do: I'm going to have to start chaining up the owl. Fond memories of power cuts Britain is running short of juice: every week now, it seems, we are being hazily warned about the potential threat of blackouts. When Ed Miliband recently proposed freezing fuel prices, the energy companies quickly warned that power cuts could be the result. Now, the former head of Ofgem has said that, such is Britain's flagging capacity to generate the power it requires, there is a real likelihood of regular power cuts "before the next election"; and a spokesman for the National Grid warned that - while he did not think it would give out this winter - reserve supplies of electricity were wafer thin. As we all know, power cuts tend to result in cold, dark houses, rapidly warming refrigerators, redundant mobile phone chargers and the absence of an internet connection. Yet - although the last two drawbacks weren't a consideration then - that is precisely why I enjoyed them as a child. As my father snapped into action with candles, blankets and his rarely excavated oil lamp, and shadows began flickering across the wall, there was the exciting air of being suddenly catapulted into the 19th century, yet surviving intact. I felt much the same on the two or three occasions when we were "snowed in": what a joy to be temporarily immobilised, and through no fault of one's own. I can see, of course, that such things are not nearly so exciting as an adult, particularly if one is elderly or infirm, and that a melting freezer full of food can drown out even the romance of a candle. Which is why, in the years to come, I will be hoping for the best. But - with candles, torches and perhaps a wind-up radio, a cool box and a small camping stove - I'll be quietly preparing for the worst. To Mr Duport, with love The revelation last week of a rule book for new students at Cambridge, penned in the 17th century, yielded some wonderfully vivid advice. James Duport, a fellow of Trinity College, solemnly advised freshers in 1660 to avoid "gadding and gossiping from chamber to chamber" or "picking your nose" in the company of tutors. They were told to "wear no boots, nor powder your hair," avoid football (a game for "Clownes not Schollers"), and "use tennis sparingly, and never immediately after meales, it being then too violent and too stirring." The author reminded them of the need to stay in touch with the folks back home: "Write frequently to your parents and friends, to ye former especially if you know they desire you and expect it." It is all good, trenchant stuff. I wonder what Mr Duport would say if he were around university campuses today: "Goe not to the tattooist in the town when drunke, for you will regret the bold tribal arm-sleeve patterne when sober, nor tweete badness about your Tutors when in ale. Do not copy essays from the Internette, for your crime will be uncovered. And in the town hostelry avoid the mode of twerkeing in the manner of Miley Cyrus, which shall inflame confusion and lewdnesse in your fellowes. There's so much to talk about. Please, can we bring him back?