Great Exhalations

I had awoken to find a sparkling crust had formed on one side of my pillow. Either two slugs had taken residence in my nose, or my flu was progressively worsening. I could feel the gridlock of snot in the freeways behind my face, so I think it was safe to say that my immune system would be earning it’s keep. During one of the most illuminating, if not necessary, talks of the MWF my sickness began to take it’s toll. I was finding it hard to balance the urgency of bodily functions and maintain the solemnity of the discussions. I was desperate to cough out the residue of my illness, but the talk on the writer’s role in political activism was so important, that I was loath to interrupt in any way.

As Pettina Gappah was commenting on the important role fiction plays in subversively bringing political agendas to the fore, my person began to buckle under the pressure of ick. I knew coughing out loud would detract from the discussion, so my only alternative was to cough out quiet. I did my best slow motion cough. A painfully slow lung heave that sounded like a toothless dog gumming a chew toy. My gurgling exhalations had gotten so bad that a woman passed me a tissue. I gratefully snatched it, emptying my throat into the ply. Then she gingerly offered me a blue biro. I looked down at the tissue, which looked an awful lot like a petition against the parallel importing of books in Australia.

My nose is still running, but nowhere near as fast as I am.

by Frenchelbow
Festival Blogger
Dead Under Fluorescent Lights