Twitch III

I woke up this morning to grey and leaden skies. Nevertheless, the sun did come out, and the impressive petitionary skill of the Flyhalf was on my mind on this issue of the theurgic invocation of sunlight on dreary days. But this was not the issue and I must apologise, dear reader, for the peripatetic peregrination which I have undertaken. To get to the point: I was woken up by a twitch.

You will recall that I have made two previous entries on this twitch. Well, this one was truly worthy of the word. With an insistent series of acute tugs upon the ligaments of the fourth toe (from phalanges to metatarsals), I was yanked (oh, such an ugly Americanism) from the soothing arms of Hypnos through the roiling kingdoms of Morpheus and into the cold light of day.

Like a baleful Banquo banqueting, the accusatory fifth toe glowered at me from its perch of superiority. I had emplaced it upon a stack of cushions through the night, like a member of a squad of watchmen. It had decided to repay my trust by calling upon its neighbour to feed me a false alarm. Or so it seemed.

Seized by desperate and sudden fear, I sat up. Throb, throb, twitch, twitch. Was it healing? Was it something more insidious? Was a former student, fresh from the halls of Baccalaurea, planning an excruciating revenge? No. It was the morning of my Roentgenisation; for I was about to receive sufficient radiation for a negative image of the right foot's bones to be formed on plastic film. Evidently, the digit in question was not happy and was registering its protest through the offices of my subconscious.

With great determination, I sank back into sleep – only to be awoken by the alarm clock scheduled for a time not five minutes after. Breathing subvocalised imprecations at the powers of the Night (subvocal, for Ratri is powerful), I got up, placing gentle pressure upon the right foot and increasing this pressure laterally. Cowed, the delinquent digit finally deigned to keep its twitchy counsel to itself.

And thus, I awoke.