The Artist's Cough

The artist in particular has been bed-bound for several days now and coughs erupt throughout the flat like regular small explosions. (A larger one maliciously enjoys its prey on TV.) In this capital, these past few sick days, the sands of inaction have been kicked into the face of frustration. For compensation, though, we have the beautiful delight of our children. I take them out with me. We cough too but race at speed across smooth tarmac. The city feels idle but we feel good. Our daughter glides with ease on gifted roller blades while our son angles through the park on a fast-pedaled bike. A squirrel looks up as they pass, stares, bows his head, and resumes chewing at his stash. Just then, a huge noise breaks out. Everyone turns. It sounds like a tank. But it is not a tank. It is a four year old driving a motorised quad bike, the same type crushed on the news by a car. Seldom is the modern world so absurdly exposed for the folly it is than when a child nods sternly at strangers as it drives a pile of mechanised pooh, thinking it the queen of the world. It is like a leader running for election in a prematurely presumed victory, only to fall - or expolode - at the last furlong. Our son now sits down in the cafe and eats his rock cake. Our daughter wipes some dirt from her roller blades and smiles modestly at a friendly waiter. We are enjoying each other's company but feel for the artist back home. Across the park and through the oak tress, we imagine we hear coughing.