Twitch.
It makes one feel like a twat.
Johns Hopkins Medicine elaborates: ‘Restless legs syndrome, or RLS, is a neurological disorder characterized by unpleasant sensations in the legs and an uncontrollable urge to move when at rest in an effort to relieve these feelings. RLS sensations are often described as burning, creeping or tugging, or like insects crawling inside the legs.’
My experience of this unfortunate ailment is an involuntary jolt or jerk. One senses the imminent approach of heaviness in the leg, tries to maintain composure, then — twitch.
I regard myself as a neutral sleeper and am consistently blessed with the recommended and regular eight hours of proper rest. On most normal-temperature days, and in our own cot, I drift off after the typical ten minutes of supine reflection on life. The obligatory quarter-turns follow in a practical, synchronised fashion with my dear wife. Twitch.
However, lately, my RLS is progressively annoying and, frequently, a stubborn obstacle to the tranquillity of the erstwhile. Do I need more vitamins? Twitch.
Earlier in life, I — perhaps wrongly — blamed a mildly active lifestyle for the incessant, nocturnal spasms. In my current more mature years, physical exercise is more elusive and sedate. Twitch. One’s older mindset might also be a factor. Together with a Ginger named Marigold and her ample side-kick, Azzie. Twitch.
Sleep becomes elusive. The mind gets busy, concerned, frustrated: children, the country, work — or the lack thereof — the syntax of this piece I’m writing in my head while suddenly tossing around obstinately. The list is endless. Twitch.
The Ginger can’t settle in a spot, alternating above and under the eiderdown duvet. What is ‘eider’ anyway? Poor ducks. How do you pluck a duck these days? Twitch.
Ginger now licks herself. A lot. Long, smacking sounds drown out the African wood owl’s who-who, who-who-who, who-are-you, in the Glen. Twitch.
Now her nails are stuck in the not-so-cheap duvet cover, causing a fantastic commotion. Mercifully she untangles and slithers off the bed and then glides to her food bowl with its expensive pellets in the kitchen. Crunch, crunch. Time to visit the litter tray. Cat litter is scraped around furiously. Then, much-needed playtime with Azzie. Twitch. Azzie’s nail sounds on the parquet. Click, click, click. Aren’t cats supposed to be silent? Stalkers even? Twitch. Is that a cat on the kitchen counter, again? That can’t be the first olive thrush calling — surely. What time is it? Should I get up to make coffee and read and accept my fate? Twitch.