Róisín Ingle on . . . a twitch in time

I have a twitch. A twitch in the left side of my face. I try to garner sympathy from assorted loved ones as they prowl through the kitchen on

various missions.

“What’s a twitch?” one of my loved ones says while trying to stuff half a Victoria sponge in her mouth. “Do you mean a twig? I love twigs,” says another loved one, writing “Tweggs” on her Santa list, the length of which is beginning to cause mild but rising alarm.

“Maybe it’s a wine induced twitch,” says the remaining loved one, taking his yoga mat and bringing it into the sitting room where, in what I believe to be an excessive move, he has lit seven candles. The house might burn down, I worry. But I am not really worried, or at least I am only worrying in order to take my mind off the twitch.

It’s tiny in the scheme of things. Nobody else can even see it. It might feel as though my left cheek is quivering every four seconds. (Well, two seconds. No four. It is unpredictable.) But to the outside world I appear the same. How can this be? I feel changed by The Twitch. The Twitch seems symbolic of something, but what?

I force myself not to Google “annoying facial twitch” in case the news is not good. I go to sleep dreaming about The Twitch.

The next morning I go to a meeting about pensions. Somebody is talking, as in words are coming out of their mouth, but nothing they say makes any sense to me. Except to note, and this is purely based on intuition, that none of it sounds Good. Somehow, even though I don’t understand exactly why, it sounds Bad. Or at least it seems that way to me and my intuition. It definitely has a whiff of A Bit Worse Than It Was Before about it anyway.

I put my hand on my cheek, to try and stem the twitch, but even under my hand I can feel the twitch, twitching away.

“You look like you have a headache,” says the bearer of the Possibly Not Very Good Pension News, touchingly concerned that his complex financial message has brought on a migraine. No, I want to tell him. It’s not you, it’s me. Me and my twitch. But this is neither the Time nor the Place.

I smile enigmatically instead. A smile that I hope says. “I understand more than you think I do”.

I can resist the lure of the internet no more. The Irish Times Health Centre is a new and excellent online resource where you can find solid information about all sorts of ailments. Unfortunately, the page about facial twitches has yet to be published, so I go to Google instead. I learn three "facts" about twitches.

1. They are more common in women. 2. They have been known to start in women at around age 44. 3. They can be symptomatic of all sorts of worrying sounding things, neurological disorders and other possibilities that keep me awake half the following night. And this is why you should stay away from Google and wait for your ailment to appear on The Irish Times Health Centre. That's just a word to the wise.

I go to get my make-up done. It’s been a while. I wonder will the make-up artist notice The Twitch. If she does, she doesn’t say. She tells me she meditates. I agree it is a very good thing to do. “Do you meditate?” she asks. “Yes,” I lie wanting the conversation to continue.

Afterwards I think of how much meditation I have done in the past. I resolve to start meditating again.

I go out for dinner with two female friends. I try to forget about The Twitch. The conversation takes a turn for the maudlin.

There is a tale about a famous man’s affair with a much younger woman and the devastation this caused to his children and his wife. There is a sad story about the sudden death of a very young and very promising man. And another story about a mother abandoning her children. We drink red wine and talk about how lucky we are and how life is for living.

I go home and the candle-fiend tells me a story he has heard about an octogenarian who had a row with a fellow resident in a nursing home and walked out. He was found dead by the side of the road in the early hours of the following morning. “Where was he heading to?” is what I’m thinking as I fall asleep.

I wake up. The Twitch is gone. But I know it will come back. I sense this twitch-free time is only a reprieve.

When the children have gone off to school, I light a sensible number of candles, close my eyes and give myself over to the still, quiet morning.

roisin@irishtimes.com