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poliphiloThe painkillers I'd been taking for twenty odd years had become largely ineffective but they did still mask- without killing- the restlessness of my left leg- a syndrome I've had from childhood.
They also made me sleepy.
Now I've knocked them off the leg is dancing like Eliza Doolittle and I'm lying there wide awake.
A third thing that's going on- which may be a withdrawal symptom- and so of passing interest- is an ultra sensitivity of the skin. So I'm dancing, I'm wide awake and I'm registering ever last twinge and tickle.
Not fun.
Last night I got up, read a bit, opened a miniature of single malt- which I knocked over and spilt after a couple of sips- which was probably my higher self warning me that this wasn't the way to go- and ate a packet of seaweed crisps. Returning to bed, I built myself a bank of pillows to recline against- and the radical change of posture gave the body something new to think about- and I finally managed to get some sleep.
A correlative of broken nights is vivid dreaming.
I was in Lewes watching an annual parade. A float went by that I really liked- it was actually more like an advan- made of tin plate and painted with devils and skeletons. I offered to buy it- and the owner and I settled on a price of £8. There was a pause- presumably while I went to get the money- and then I had to go look for him- and was told I'd find him- with his tattoos of devils and skeletons- working behind the counter at Boots the Chemists. The deal was still on, only now he wanted £3,000. We haggled, I beat him down to £100- and a nice middle-aged woman counted out my money for me- because I'm hopeless at that sort of thing- and it was all in £4 notes- which carry a full colour portrait of Martin Luther King...
They also made me sleepy.
Now I've knocked them off the leg is dancing like Eliza Doolittle and I'm lying there wide awake.
A third thing that's going on- which may be a withdrawal symptom- and so of passing interest- is an ultra sensitivity of the skin. So I'm dancing, I'm wide awake and I'm registering ever last twinge and tickle.
Not fun.
Last night I got up, read a bit, opened a miniature of single malt- which I knocked over and spilt after a couple of sips- which was probably my higher self warning me that this wasn't the way to go- and ate a packet of seaweed crisps. Returning to bed, I built myself a bank of pillows to recline against- and the radical change of posture gave the body something new to think about- and I finally managed to get some sleep.
A correlative of broken nights is vivid dreaming.
I was in Lewes watching an annual parade. A float went by that I really liked- it was actually more like an advan- made of tin plate and painted with devils and skeletons. I offered to buy it- and the owner and I settled on a price of £8. There was a pause- presumably while I went to get the money- and then I had to go look for him- and was told I'd find him- with his tattoos of devils and skeletons- working behind the counter at Boots the Chemists. The deal was still on, only now he wanted £3,000. We haggled, I beat him down to £100- and a nice middle-aged woman counted out my money for me- because I'm hopeless at that sort of thing- and it was all in £4 notes- which carry a full colour portrait of Martin Luther King...
