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Night of the ’Bunta
The sharp pinprick of pain in the side of my knee woke me in the blackest part of the night. In the bottom left corner of the window, stars glittered in the sky, but too far away to say, without glasses or contacts, which constellation it was; not that I’d recognise anyone other than Orion and his belt.
I shifted and the pain hit sharp me again, making me work out that its source had to be a straight pin that, somehow, got worked into the oversized cushion I sleep with under my knees, to complement the stack of pillows under my head, two whole heaps of effort to avoid the acid reflux that would otherwise keep me awake worrying it was really a heart attack this time, and not the curry again, as always (until the heart attack, of course).
Avoiding shifting in bed so as not to wake my wife, I reached down and rolled the cushion, to move the pin to a non-threatening position, reminding myself to have a word with my daughter about where she did her pinning—of what? What did she ever have to mend, apart from her bridges?—and drifted back to sleep almost immediately, despite a slight lingering pain.
The fuzzy constellation was gone from sight in the window frame, so it might have been more than an hour later when the pin chooked me again, sharply, right in the knee-pit this time, where its irritation smarted more.
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