Yesterday morning's earthquake was a wake-up call in both senses.
Hitting just after 3.30am and centred 5km north of Napier at a depth of 12km, it shook me from sleep, while my young daughter called out in fright.
A single, resounding crack was all the house offered in response tothe moving plates. I have the utmost faith in the rimu skeleton of my 1920s bungalow, the endemic strength of its native timber having shrugged off the big one only a decade after its construction.
Colleagues this morning told of experiencing a long rolling episode, while a friend reported wrongly accusing her husband of being too boisterous and waking her on his return from work at 3.30am.
Truth is, mine's not the model family in terms of quake response. The "drop, cover and hold" mantra is more like, "stop, wonder and hope".
Shocking, yes. That's why there were two types of wake-up calls yesterday. For if there were a Richter-scale measuring idiocy, I'd register a decent magnitude.
Every time I don't run for cover during a quake (which is every time), I wonder if it will be the last in a long line of unwise decisions.
Of eerie interest, too, was the reaction of the urban birdlife which, in a loud chorus, began singing enthusiastically immediately after the jolt, albeit two hours too early. Was it a song of camaraderie, succour and near-miss relief? Or had the quake simply frustrated their morning rhythm?
Like them, there was no sleep for me the rest of the morning - an apt punishment for quake apathy and repeat inaction. Once again I was lucky lack of sleep was all that befell me.
