the Common Place

There’s a story called Chest in Will Self’s collection Grey Area which is set in a sort of Chekhovian alternate London where everyone is on the verge of respiratory crisis. The pavements are covered with “Jackson Pollock murals of sputum,” people carry oxygen cylinders, pass around inhalers, and sip cough syrup from liqueur glasses instead of after dinner drinks.

I feel like this has been my reality for the past week. Though we don’t spit on the floor (much) and are likely to swig the cough syrup straight from the bottle if we can’t find the stupid plastic cup and the spoons are all dirty.

Of course, the the always-original Wonder Girl found the respiratory motif too constricting, and proceeded to throw up several times on Sunday. We were all grateful for this new distraction.

During all this the weather has been bright, sunny, in the sixties, with the sound of heavy surf drowning out the sea lions every morning.

So far we haven’t needed oxygen, or — a more likely scenario– prednisone, though the doctor did bring up the “p” word. The take-home from all this is, even if you get real cocky about cutting down on the need for asthma meds on an everyday basis, it’s a good idea to stock up on a rescue inhaler when you know a big fat hairy virus is headed your way. And to do this at a time that’s convenient for everyone involved.