Sominus Interruptus

The room, a lovely temperate 65 degrees. The pillow is poufed up just right. I am nestled under a billow of comforter with Einstein cuddled in the crook of my knees. My flannel nightshirt is so old and soft from a hundred launderings, it feels as if it almost isn't there. It is dark, save for the bit of moonlight filtering through the black sheers on the window. I am slipping off into unconsciousness. Ahhh, slumber is mine. Then, ffweeee. ffweeee. ffweeee. Damn! There's a whistle in my nose! I try to ignore it. And can't. I do a little rapid in-out, in-out accelerated breathing through my nose, in an effort to dislodge the nasal tweet. ffweee. Aggravated, I abandon my cozy bed-nest in search of a kleenex. I blow and wipe with gusto and thoroughness. The whistle is gone, but so is my dreamy drift-off. I crawl back into bed with a spare tissue in my hand. If the dreaded whistle returns, I am prepared to deal with the miserable little ffweee. Tonight, all I will have to deal with is the full moon madness dreamfest. Wish me luck.