Friday October 28, 2005
Well, there’s one advantage to the later stages of the common cold. I shall not need a horror mask when I open the door to the young scallawags who come trick or treating on Hallowe’en.
I caught sight of my ghastly, sallow, unshaven fizzog in the big bathroom mirror this evening. Picture of gruesome, that’s what I looked like. Stuck my tongue out. Disgusting. Put it away. Pulled lower eyelid down. Best not to describe the horror that was revealed. Oh, to hell with it. Stuck my tongue out again, hunched up one shoulder, pulled the worst, most horrific face I can manage, and issued my very best Lurch-like groan.
That made me laugh. And the laugh made me cough.
“How you doin’?” Graham asked when we spoke last thing.
“Oh, pretty good, considering, thanks. Been getting better right through the day, hour by hour.”
“Poor old sausage.”
“You really are feeling better, then.”
“Yeah. Appetite’s coming back but only for fruit and junk food.”
“You got fruit?”
“Yup. And lots of junk food.”
“Sounds like a pretty good balanced diet to me.”
And so, another day, steady progress, and not so bad, really. I’ll be glad when it’s done and I’m grateful it’s no worse than it has been.
I hate this late-stage common cold feeling, though. There’s probably a word for it but I can’t discover one in the maze of soggy cottonwool that passes for my brain at the moment. Best I can come up with is defwogulated. Not bad, that. Defwogulated. Yes. I’ll settle for that.