The Cough

It starts as a tic, a glitch, a slight thickening in the air as it rolls over my tongue and surfs down into my lungs, a moment of liquefaction that subsides momentarily before starting to set the unprotected ends of my nerves all ajangle. I glance nervously round the carriage, the filling in a Crombie sandwich, and, handkerchief unavailable without considerable pocket mining, slip off my fleece hat. Then the tickling starts at the back of the throat, I force saliva and swallow, hoping to drown whatever arthritic-fingered grandparent is tormenting me, the tickle subsides then returns with greater insistence. Pressure builds in my chest, and I bunch the hat, more swallowing, a prayer to St Jude. The train stops, adding to my misery, spectacular convulsions and expectoration I can cope with on a platform but in the confines of the carriage it may startle the horses. More pressure, I now know the inevitable will happen, that I will cough but will it be the single bark and wheeze, or the tubercular rack; explosions coming thick and fast, each inhalation providing fuel for the next bombardment? And which breath will it start with, this one, the next one, the one after that? It's this one; my chest contracts forcing air out in spasm, the hat, hovering below my chin, moves swiftly up to catch the gust and any pulmonary detritus. I breathe in cautiously through my nose, this is the crux point, wake up Grandad Tickler now and I will descend into the tussive equivalent of an avalanche. The train is overheated so that the stifling air does just that, it stifles mercifully.
In the night I have to adopt a different strategy, I sleep, or attempt to sleep, with my nose and mouth submerged under the covers where the air is heated by my body. However, there comes a point where I will have to surface to find some oxygen. Like a whale I rise to sip some air, never knowing if the harpoon of the patrolling unheated-air "scientific whaling" fleet will strike, leaving my neighbours to enjoy the aural Nantucket Sleighride of my paroxysms.
Eventually I will reach for the balm of codeine linctus and glug, then wait for the forty minutes it takes to smother my throat with honey and lullaby my tormentors into the arms of morphine. There is a problem with codeine though, not only does it still the cough, it stills everything else as well so that I rise groggily in the morning, mouth filled with glue, head filled with wool, and stumble into my bathroom, my clothes, some shoes, the street. The street where the cycle will begin again, the imp in my throat cracks his hoary knuckles, reaches out and begins very gently to stroke.