Tuesday, 14 June 2011
20 Dollar Nose Bleed
Yesterday down on the allotment a fellow digger asked if I had a cold. No I said just a bit of hay fever. What she said interested me. Why should she think I had a cold? I wasn't blowing into a handkerchief, I wasn't sniffling, I was, well normal. But I let it pass and carried on planting out my rows of white sprouting broccoli, Swiss chard and weird Chinese radishes that have huge spicy knobbly seeds.
When I arrived home I knew why my allotment friend thought I had a cold. "Hello there, Karl Malden , what's it like not being able to see in front of your nose?" That was my wife's loving greeting to one who had brought home the bacon - ok the lettuce, broad beans and extremely unhealthy looking radishes (French version).
"Your nose is huge," she continued, "Won't need any lights tonight -you'll guide us to bed with that lighthouse of a schnozzle. What happened?" Sure enough, looking back at me in the mirror was Jimmy Durante - and some.
"Does it hurt?", she enquired. Up until then I hadn't been aware that I had a problem with the hooter: now it was terminal. I have visions of my treasured snoot, been with me, man and boy, for more years than I care to count, exploding, or the tip getting redder and redder and my eyes growing smaller and smaller and my ears sticking up pig like as I transformed into a porker. "No really," I replied weakly. "Have you been picking it?" my dear wife enquired. I thought that was a bit below the shnoz, "No, I haven't!" I cried indignantly. "You've been bitten by a bug, that's it - bring it here. Let me have a closer look." So I allowed my once pert honker to be poked and prodded.
I went to bed last night a much diminished man - but I could read by the light of my snout. I swear that half way through the night the missus swung round to my side of the bed, and daubed my nose with some patented ointment designed to deflate rude and embarrassing swellings.
This morning's light brought no relief. It was as inflamed and as porky as the night before. The wife's constant enquiring didn't help. "Are you sure you didn't stick your hand up it? Have you been poking it where you shouldn't?" I must confess I almost sent her out for a Yashmak.
I haven't been out today. Not so much from embarrassment, more from my concern that traffic might stop permanently believing the traffic lights had stuck on red.
Luckily as the earth cools in the evening breeze, my proboscis is calming down. I can now imagine venturing forth into the world without a clown's disguise masking my inflamed conk. And the unending tape of Frasier and two giant schnauzers has, at last, stopped.