Spluttering, snuffling, snot full hankies, coughing and green spitting, a bad, no a very bad case of the Boo, a true man flu. He sits in a vapour of Vicks and cloves, slurping hot whisky, drawn into himself and his ailment. In a corner of his local spreading germs, sneezing and slurping miserably. Too hot, throws off his coat in a torment, and immediately feels the chill from the open door. Bastards, selfish unthinking bastards puffing away knowing he can’t smoke. Rhinitis, the unrelenting runny rhinitis, the itching red-rimmed eyes and then the collapse and wet smoking anyway.
The Boo’s beginnings are in a star burst of sinus, a desert dry aching throat, and impaired senses. Coordination, never a strong suit, deteriorates before plunging into a free fall of bruised knuckles and stubbed toes. Confined to chair, to bed, to cabin, his anxiety to move builds to a contrary crescendo.
She enters the sick kitchen á la river dance, rummages for food, and settles on another bowl of cornflakes.
Hi Dad, still sick?
More an accusation then a question.
Omar Shariff tumbles in for chocolate chips.
Dad, sick, still?
Ask your sister.
Buzz lightening arrives, so fast it hurt’s his sick eyes. Decelerates road-runner like to a quivering standstill.
No one understands man flu or can fully assimilate the Boo excepting 48 ½ year old grumpy fuckers who have soared like eagles and touched stars.