My right nostril is dispensing mucus at a rate of about four cups per day.
The other night, we were discussing how there are four cups in a pint, four pints in a quart, two quarts in a gallon. All of us unbeatable conversationalist, an incongruous rat pack of raconteurs. I was reminded of GOMAD, the skinny boy bodybuilder trick of drinking a Gallon of Milk a Day (GOMAD) to get gain muscle. Eight pints of milk is foul. But at the going rate, I’ll have eight pints of mucus in just over a week (EPOMIJOAW)
I started to get sick the day before yesterday, I had the sniffles after I went swimming. I was in the library hawking up whatever it was. I blamed allergies at first. I was in denial. I’m always assuming one thing is another thing, one thing less serious. The itch is fungus, the intolerance is playful, or no, that’s a birthmark—it’s new. I call it wilful optimism but others call me latently avoidant.
I like the body shift, like being hit by a van. I can wander slightly drunken through the kitchen, the living room; do things I would never do sober. Roast a chicken and tear it into soup, eat the whole thing over the course of a day. Rearrange the bookshelf five times, move the spiderwort plant back and forth from the window to the paper catalogue. Watch a film and cry (Spider-Man: Far From Home).
I’ve spent my day in the company of these bastard flies that wane in through the windows. All too eased to invite themselves inside, eager for a bowl of my soup. I have a theory about them; there’s something dead outside the living room. The flies are pretty docile, they collect by the sills in the kitchen or the bathroom.
But how many pints are in a gallon of mucus? And how many flies are in a dead bird?
I thought of an experiment to test my hypothesis. Open all the windows and close all the doors. Sit in the dark of the hallway, boring myself to death but perhaps enthralled in a really provocative book. After eight hours, open all the doors one-by-one and count the flies. If correct about the dead animal, there should be more in the living room and the rear-facing bedrooms. More likely for something to be dead in the garden than in the courtyard. And all the more flies in my home.
Worse case scenario; I’m robbed. Alternate worse case scenario; hundreds of flies are swarming inside each room, ergo the flat is surrounded by dozens of dead animals. Best case scenario; there are no flies and I’ve wasted a perfectly good afternoon. Alternate worse case scenario; more flies appear in the hallway than in any of the rooms, ergo I’m the dead animal. And alternate best case scenario; I get better and leave the house tomorrow.
—Andy x