Decidedly under the weather

My face is squeaking. Every time I breathe out it sounds like a door hinge in the upstairs flat needs to be oiled. My wheezechest burns with a hundred thousand needlepricks sewed drum tight into a bursting leather bag. The neighbours are out-shouting each other, an angry baby is bawling its head off and the sky is suddenly blue with candyfloss clouds bobbing sheepishly behind the chimneys. When I cough too hard I almost wet myself and my ears hurt. I am basically a bubbling head of snot and think it is best if I return to my bed with a bottle of Gee’s Linctus until it is wine o’clock.