Two iron fists hold tightly my lungs, wringing them out like a waterlogged t-shirt. They are heavy on my heart making it hard to breath. I haven’t coughed this bad before. After 11 days of hacking cough I have only just decided it’s the “worst cough ever”. The previous record being held by that time in Goa, when I stuffed my lungs smoking chillums.

Nine days of spasmodic lung lunacy later and three chest hacking sleepless nights and I was in the whimsical little town of Hampi in India when I decided to take myself off to see a “Doctor”. 

His office was small and curious… like himself. Just two wooden chairs and an old school desk in the back corner of a book store. A backdrop of shelving containing hundreds of tiny bottles of lotions and potions made eye contact impossible. On the top row there was a line of specimens. Pickled specimens of God knows what.

He had no interest in my body temperature or my pulse but was simply after the answer to two questions:

“What is your star sign?” Virgo…

“Do you prefer the temperature to be hot or cold?” Hot…

He rose from the chair calmly and clambered through the shelves of lotions and potions. In a tiny clear plastic bag he put five even tinier pills then doused them in clear liquid and dished out his concise instructions:

“Take one of these a day”…. The cough was gone within 12 hours.

There was also a time as a child when the old frog in the throat continued to croak and ponder for far too long. I was sent to a Specialist with a referral full of speculation  about whooping cough and pneumonia. I was ordered to strip down naked so he could place his icy stethoscope over my heart. I was slightly bewildered when a week later with my Mum in tow my heart beat was suddenly audible to him without the embarrassment of my exposed prepubescent body..

Fast forward 10 or so years and my trust in medicos would be violated once again during a medical at Mt Isa Mines. This one involved a full breast examination and walking like a duck in underpants.

So perhaps I’m weak in the lungs but the incessant cough over the last two weeks can be definitely put down to karma this time. That or Gods been watching the Wendy Kramer show of late… and he ain’t too impressed. As entertaining as that show may be I still haven’t made it to prime time. And I fear my ratings are dropping as after the stunt the other week my calibres on par with Jackie O and Kyle Sandilands.

You see I was in Perth the other week attending my Aunts funeral. And its funny at funerals how certain people appear out of the woodwork, like termites they devour our grief in turn for their time on the stage, their name in lights. So a certain termite wanted to read a poem at the funeral… no… she was told. And then no… at the wake.

Without getting too sidetracked here, a Kramer/Preston wake involves a lot of beer.

So at Thornlie Bowling Club the other week a certain uncertified termite read a certain poem which was certainly of the calibre of a five year old. A certain niece took a certain disliking to said poem and caused everyone to become quite disconcerted when she laughed uncontrollably throughout its retched reading.

And then coughed uncontrollably for the next two weeks (and was forced into a face mask and swine flu hype on two separate occasions).

And the moral of the story is kids: Drugs and paedophiles are bad news. But on rare occasions you can get good drugs from a Quack without having to waddle like a duck. 

And…. never ever cough in the face of karma.