Now, I’m not saying that transvestites and phone sex operators have the easiest lives in the world. But, based on my experiences today, I kind of envy them because I’m beginning to suspect that perhaps they get treated all the time like I have been today.
Allow me to explain.
My much-whined-about cold is slowly improving but, contrarily, I sound increasingly worse and my throat is so hoarse that I either have to murmur in a come hither ‘is that a pen in my pocket or am I just pleased to see you’ kind of a way or try to talk normally and end up with something not unlike the bastard child of Marlon Brando and a frog.
The above is, surely, an object of derision, right? But no. People I talk to, instead of mocking me as they should, are being, well… nice.
Whether it’s because they I’m they think I’m pre-op and feel sorry for me because I can’t afford the final snip-snip or because they think I have lung cancer I can’t say. Maybe it’s just because I’m such a super nice person. Hey, shut up.
Whatever it is they wouldn’t feel so sympathetic/keen to give me their credit card details if they could witness the pile of festering tissues on my desk, or hear the sound of me hacking up parts of my lung. And not the pretty parts either.
This cold is also the one reason I’m not looking forward to seeing the new James Bond flick tonight. Not because I’ll annoy the living shite out of the people around me by punctuating the soundtrack with my own brand of wheezy charm but because I fear there’s going to be a sad bit and I’ll start sniffing and/or have to blow my nose.And everyone will assume I’m pathetic because I’m crying at a James Bond movie.
So, of course, I’ll have to do the whole theatrical sneeze or fake cough or something just to underline the fact that no, I don’t find the Blandly-Exotic-Wench’s death upsetting (hey it’s not a spoiler - I’m taking a punt) - I’m sick, don’t you know?