05:38, wasn't bad by recent standards and I lay, light beginning to creep in, aware that my inner right ankle was itching.
We live in a forest, domestic animals mix with wilder ones; both visit gardens and one of the upshots of this is that even doing a bit of gentle weeding holds the threat of deer ticks and any diseases they might be harbouring. After a day gardening then it is of some interest when an itch comes along, it prompts thought, rather than simple idle scratching.
Cosy and, with my ankle seemingly too far away to reach easily I scratched gently with my left heel callous. The sensation of touch brought back the cause. The previous afternoon I had brushed my bare ankle with the fresh foliage of pulled nettles as I worked to extract as much root as possible. It was a healing itch, an almost pleasant sensation, but one I had to avoid scratching.
Reassured, but not back to sleep. The six o'clock trains rumbled, I broke for the washing-up, Radio 4's early news, watching the passage of gold tits from tree top to top and the post Jurassic ambling of jackdaws probing the fresh-mown grass for food.
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