Blonde's Eye View: Attack of the bogey man
Angela Clarke has a shocking experience in the country
Somebody coughed in my hair. I heard it and, worse, I felt it. My hair blew in their breeze. Their germs hit the back of my neck.
There are few things as disgusting than sharing bodily fluids, by accident, with a stranger.
On a scale of repulsively stressful it would be akin to discovering Boris Johnson, naked and covered in Nutella, two marshmallows over his nipples, on your bed. You'd have to burn the sheets.
I was momentarily tempted to burn my hair, or at least GI Jane it. I settled for a spritz with antibac and Evian.
Did this heinous hair crime happen in Canary Wharf? On the jam-packed Jubilee Line? No, this follicle fright took place far away from the madding crowd, at a sedate literary festival in Wales.
I expect people to be in my face in London. Perhaps not technically dripping off my face, but when you have so many people living and working in close proximity accidental splashes are bound to happen.
I can't bring myself to consider the possibility this wasn't a phantom phlegm volley, but a snot assault committed by a virulent attacker with no tissue.
A case of poor mucus manners, that saw me covered in bogeys. I've bathed in salt water and Berroca just to be safe.
You just don't expect that kind of thing in the countryside. Sheep, open air, space and suspicious locals, yes. Coughing assassins, no. I was caught off guard out of the city.
In E14 I would have fought back; flung wet wipes, tutted aggressively, wiped my hands on their suit jacket.
In the countryside I stumbled forwards and mumbled an apology to my air hair aggressor. Then I headed back, as fast as I could, to Canary Wharf and courage.
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