Monday, April 19, 2021

The Age of the Nose Bleed

 It's come to that awkward point on my journey into happily aging (from the River Forth to the River Styx) where nosebleeds seem to happen now and then. There's no rhyme or reason, no obvious stress, no anxiety or physical explanation other than wear and tear and too much sniffing and breathing. "As breathing is my life, to stop I dare not dare", (as a wise man once said).

So I don't intend to be stuck with this problem, no, I'm calling in an expert, a Doctor no less. We'll have a clinical and chilly Zoom consultation. I'll get a sweet seven minutes of the Doctor's time and I'll pack that time with all the virtual nasty nasal evidence I've carefully gathered, except for the cotton buds I burned on the bonfire. I hope it gets me somewhere, even if it's just to the back of the queue. Then, as darkness descends, I'll dive into the mysterious, experimental corridors of the Ear, Nose and Throat Wing. "Next!"

There's always an enterprising engineering answer out there for a temporary fix when you're suffering a physical inconvenience i.e. Tena pants. Such devices are never pretty, only functional and of course Amazon get them to you faster than the fire brigade. Now it's a new routine when I step out on a sunny day in my brilliant white T shirt: phone, wallet, keys and a handy man-sized pack of RhinoPinch, check! For safety, confidence; man-sized and for your own smoking pleasure. Takes me back.

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