The First Flu Of Winter

The grip in which the first flu of winter had caught Idiot B was vice like. The infection had settled into his throat securing a crampon hold on soft flesh ensuring further inflammation with every step.

It felt like a rope ladder had been slung onto the back of his tongue providing with ease, a route of access to the contagion and its temporary home.

Hunched and wheezing, cursing those decades of cigarette glamour, he wrapped swaddling protection around the ailment, quaffed another healing paracetemol libation, and awaited the hot cold sweats which was surely on its way, as surely as this winter gloom would continue into the New Year….