Nose Water

I think that it's time to admit defeat and resign myself to the fact that I have a cold. It's been that long since I last had one that I've been almost hoping for one. According to the archives of Aine Flynn's health (February twelfth nineteen hundred and eighty til present) my last documented cold was in my second year of college, the grand old year of 1998. I didn't eat for three days because I couldn't deal with the constant disappointment of seeing appetising food, which then tasted of snot.
Ever since, any sickly feelings have been purely of a self-inflicted (sneezing because of my lovely food allergies) or detoxifying (too much sauce) nature. I had this image that wrapping up in three layers of jumper, sitting sipping honey and lemon under a duvet watching videos brought to me by concerned neighbours would be nice, a la my younger days whenever I had the cold. I'd be tucked into bed by my Mammy after a good snorting of vicks, a gravitational ten blankets anchoring me to the bad, a hot water bottle at my back, and one at my feet, the edge of the blankets tickling my lashes, and the assurance of my mother's concern, cosy as a bug in a rug drowsy with sleep, I was loving the attention. cold dating from October thirtieth to November first was the reminder that this woman on her island needed to get to the mainland. Help?
I woke up desperate for someone to answer my croakey muffled moans, and tell me to stay in bed. Where was my hourly glass of boiled 7-up? Where was the love?
Drowned perceivably under a drumlin of used tissues.
In the doldrums, twas oh so cold in the doldrums, that Monday morning. Twas not so beautiful the sight of the red raw banks of my nose and nostril rims.
Self-pity disguised as nobilty sent me school-ward.
Good morning everyone.
OH! Your nose is so red.
No fucking shit Sherlock. I must've gotten the best of the eight o'clock sun, and it has burned me goodeth. Thank you for pointing it out to me, for I was in no way aware before hand. Now I know. Please ask everyone in the staffroom to remind me from time to time how red my nose area is. I can be most forgetful you know.

You could have called the persistance of the snot spectacular. The flow was steady, unrelenting, and thorough, for not only was it cruising southbound on my nasal highways, but it also was partial to the idea of a shortcut to destination Tissue, and sneaking out through my tear ducts.
At one point, such was the acceleration of the mucus, that I hadn't time to break its fall with a tissue. It fell to my shirt. A little while later, it dried, all nice and crisp, reminding me to concentrate hard, for this was an olympic-style battle.

It was funny though that the teachers weren't at all bothered by the fact that I was feeling miserable, yet, during my two classes, glimmers of Mary Flynn shone through (not a whole lot though, my mother doesn't much ressemble fourteen-year old boys). One boy offered me eye drops, which partially blinded me for five minutes, bless. Another beckoned me to his tissue box. aaaahh!
"Hana mizu (Nose water)?"they'd inquire.
"Yes, loads of hana mizu. I would say we're talking litres".

Nose water is Japanese for snot.
Snot doesn't have the negative connotations it has at home. Snot isn't exactly derogatory but you'll find that amongst some, who know not to lick their knife, or birp at the dinner table and who pretend to be full from eating three slices of cucumber, snot discussions aren't welcome. Japan, funnily enough, seems to be more accepting of snot.
In the supermarket, this is what the check-out lady said
"Do you have a points card?
"Yessum.( snort) Here you are. "
"Oh hana mizu? (snot?). Me too. So much. and your change. Thanks."
Then she bowed.

"You know the stream is like a river, ever charging as it flows" would Gareth Brooks have sung, had he been me yeasterday, fearful of a repretitive strain injury, such was the vigour of my nose-blowing.
Some might be thanking God, however, because I was not Gareth Brooks yesterday and let's be grateful that Gareth Brooks was not me, and I hope that people can find within themselves a way to forgive me for alluding to G.B. (from hence forward NEVER shall that name be typed), and ultimately reminding readers that such an musical atrocity exists.
I'm going to finish there and go wallow over what I have just said-I let it be known that I know lyrics to G***** B*****' songs. I let it be known that I know lyrics to G***** B*****' songs. I let it be known that I know lyrics to G***** B***** 'songs. I let it be known that I know lyrics to G****** B******' songs.
Well! If ever there was a time to question the hallucinagenic side effects of cold-remedies, I think it would be now.