Wednesday, 14 August 2013
As you all know, Cossack snores now and then. You know this because a previous blog explained to you in totally unnecessary detail how my sleep-life is adversely impacted by his nocturnal chain-sawing.
You would think then, would you not, that revenge in the form of a swift kick now and then should be sweet? Alas no, in my case it isn’t because I suffer just as much as he does.
You see, over the last few years I have developed ‘Restless Leg Syndrome’, which causes an infuriating need to jiggle and wiggle my legs when they are stretched out in bed in the evening. Sometimes I have to kick out very hard indeed because the twitchy sensation is so bad.
Of course this limb-lashing can sorely test a bed-mate’s unconditional acceptance of you, literally and figuratively.
Picture this – one minute I am laying there quiet as a dead grasshopper and next minute I am kicking like a horizontal Thai-boxer. Blankets and duvet get violently dislodged and Cossack’s laptop computer at which he is quietly working while sitting up in our bed, is suddenly hurtled sideways as if by a massive earthquake from the bowels of the mattress.
“YOU MAD HORSE!!!”, he cries out.
I know it is just Cossack’s inner and outer pain momentarily speaking for he really does understand I have a special condition to contend with. He actually thinks I have had many special conditions over the years but I remind him that he was personally responsible for a couple of them - take my pregnancies for instance.
Apparently ‘Restless Leg Syndrome’ can be somewhat alleviated by consuming three Brazil-nuts a day. It hasn’t worked as yet but my Portuguese has improved dramatically.
“Cossaco! Por favor, pare de nevar!”
Oops! That means, “Cossack, please stop snowing” – One letter can make so much difference on Google-Translate, can it not?
OK, so I am effluent at Portuguese but I am a very accomplished mandarin – snipper and so I should be after two months of snipping each and every mandarin from hundreds of trees with little secateurs so that no stalk remains to stab the other fruit in the crates.
When I first started at this orchard you could barely see the glossy green foliage, so laden were the trees, but we have almost finished taking off that brilliantly orange sea of fruit.
Sometimes I work on the same tree opposite the vivacious Lupin Crawford and we talk our heads off like there is no tomorrow because amazing women like us can exchange mandarins and snip words simultaneously without our brains getting addled.
Other times I work with the deaf and silent Barry and that is good in a different way because I can either listen to my radio or slip into one of the many colourful worlds that insist on residing in my head.
But where on earth was I when I snipped my thumb instead of a mandarin-stalk? Who knows, but it hurt! How the blood spurted as I ran up the hill to the boss’s house, not screaming, but waving my injured thumb high up in the air as martyrishly as possible.
You should have seen me trying to apply plasters to my own thumb but I clumsily managed and as I skipped back to work I thought how wonderful it was that I didn’t cut off my whole hand or my nose or my ear, just to spite my face.
Anyway, back here at home, Cossack is fast asleep and his nostrils are revving up…
Time to kick…kick…kick….
End of snorey.