Something Sticky...

I've been doing some work experience at a national paper and recently had the good fortune to attend the morning's leader conference.

I was struck by the encyclopedic knowledge of these men and women. I know that they have spent a lifetime in the industry, and it's their job to keep abreast of world affairs, but there doesn't seem to be a topic on which at least one is not an authority.

But this was not my main concern during the hour-long discussion. What really affected, indeed irked me, was the fact that I hadn't brought along a tissue - and the reaction I received when I did something about it.

I was nursing a thoroughly-installed cold, complete with soggy head, fuzzy throat and gushing nostrils. I should have thought ahead and forklifted in with me an industrial pack of Kleenex.

But no. I had, doe-eyed and submissive, like a naughty child being marched off the playground, followed the leader writers into the editor's office intent on contributing to a conversation which rapidly sailed over my bunged-up head...

How long is this meeting? I need a tissue - WHY didn't I bring a tissue?

I can feel the globule slither down my nasal canal, pulled earthward by gravity. Glassy mucus - snot - is an indicator of ill-health, an external sign of the acute viral nasopharynitis multiplying within me, filling my head with flem. I mustn't let them see it.

If I had a tissue, I'd be fine. Somehow, parping like a fog-horn until you evacuate your sinuses onto a piece of recycled tree-bark, before stuffing the whole slimy, flaky mess back into your pocket is deemed less of a faux-pas than sniffing. Braying like a donkey: good, sniffling: bad.

But I have to sniff, I know I'm only delaying the inevitable. I can feel the viscous advance reach the threshold of my nostril. They are talking excitedly about the situation in Zimbabwe. All I am thinking about is choosing the right moment to commit the most uncivilized of acts.

Here goes.

I sniff in the most effete manner imaginable and a female leader instantly shifts her icy gaze towards me. She rolls her eyes heavenward to relocate her moral high ground. I have deeply offended her with my sniffle.

After a lifetime in what is probably the rudest profession, I would have expected the lady to have slightly thicker skin. (It looks about the depth and consistency of a leather belt).

Why am I being silently reprimanded for sniffling? All I have essentially done is taken action to prevent the excretion of a bodily fluid. Would I be similarly judged for not weeing myself?

I am not so uncouth as to suggest that sniffing is polite, particularly in a quiet, serious atmosphere such as this. But I shouldn't be made to feel like a leper for not possessing a tissue. No one wants to look at the glistening snot smeared like a slug-trail across my upper lip. I have saved this paragon of virtue such a sight, so she needn't frown at me with those muddy irises.

I shall continue to sniff because I never remember to bring a tissue. I shall even - before checking that no-one is looking, obviously - wipe my nose on my sleeve. Trust me, it's better than the alternative.