The Man in 47D

So when you woke up on Friday morning, Man in 47D you had a bit of a sniffle but nothing serious, probably just the pollution as it had been rather sunny in Hong Kong the past couple of days and that always gets the ozone levels up. You went through your day doing what you needed to do and at some point Mrs Man in 47D packed your suitcase. That evening you kissed Mrs Man in 47D and patted the little Man in 47D's and promised to bring them back a present from London. You went to the airport, through security and maybe even had a look at the stupidly overpriced bottles of scotch in the duty free shop.

Maybe I looked down at you from my seat at the Long Bar in Cathay Pacific's business class lounge, maybe we walked down the airbridge together, you turning right and me left at door #2. You settled down into seat 47D, middle row of seats on the left, near the wing. Did you have the pork or the beef for dinner, or maybe you had neither because right now you were feeling rather poorly, nose dripping like a fucked fridge and a throat that felt you had just finished giving blow jobs to a large pack of very well endowed timber wolves? You had a miserable night's sleep and not just because you were in economy class and seat 47D did not fully recline but rather because everything ached and you could not get comfortable. And all through that night you sneezed and sniffled and your little cargo of rhinovirus made its way into the air conditioning systems which, being at 36,000 feet recirculate the air several times as it costs extra fuel to heat up fresh, very cold air from outside.

I had a quite pleasant flight, Man in 47D; nice meal, good night's sleep and I even got a sausage for breakfast, you know how much dragons like sausages. But all night I'd been breathing in your recirculated germs.

And so of course three days after getting home it starts with the drippy nose, the headache, the aching limbs, the complete fatigue and, joy of joys, the rendition of a certain oral service to top-level forest predators experience. And just in time for the Easter Holidays when I had all that DIY planned I'm flat on my back for four days with the most miserable cold I have had in ages.

And then just when I'm starting to feel a bit better on Monday in comes Mrs Dracunculus looking like she'd walked into a wall. She pointed at her throat and croaked.

"Timber wolves at it again?" I asked.

She nodded.

Thanks, man in 47 D. Thanks a whole fecking lot.