Off The Cuff: A wry look at life

It was a cough, not a raging cough, more like one that would get me disbarred from audience participation in Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. A discreet throaty rupture about every five to six minutes, what in another era may have been described as a "polite society" type of cough.

Two months ago I would not have worried, a ticklish throat was no reason to do anything but take a few spoonfuls of honey. OK, possibly have an early night, but that would be an exception, say for a bad cold.

Now, such symptoms, when coupled with an international flight, could see me in quarantine for 10 days, under the watchful eyes of medical practitioners wrapped in sterile, sanitised clothing and resembling for all the world astronauts about to leave for Mars.

Even arriving at an airport, to either land or take off, is a task pregnant with anxiety above and beyond the normal apprehensions of a sane person willingly deciding to board an aircraft with hundreds of other apparently sane people.

A bit of a runny nose here, a bit of a temperature there (who doesn't feel a bit heated when going through the travails of modern flying) and medical personnel are whisking you away in front of other people worried that they may have picked up something contagious that would in turn merit their being whisked away.

The rituals of check-in alone can see me fume, trying to keep my frustration in check at the check-in. "What do you mean the bag is overweight. I am overweight. My wife is overweight, many of my friends are overweight but are you suggesting that my bags are asked to go on a diet. $400 surcharge, but the ticket only cost $250."

Take my temperature after such an exchange and the mercury or digital recording may register a sudden rise, certainly the blood pressure would. As if flying was not enough to keep you awake at night, turning in your bed. I know, I know, it's all about thrust and aerodynamics but the engines look so small on their wing mountings. I mean, how do they stay in the air.

Granted, the odd one here and there does obey the natural laws of gravity but they are, so we are told, the safest form of transport much safer than driving.

But considering the ability of some drivers I have seen throughout the world, that in itself is no reason for comfort. But even if you clear the medical check on departure then you board a plane crammed with masked, nervous passengers resembling what to all the world look like delegates on their way to a whacky Las Vegas convention for bandits.

And now pilots are under instructions, on certain routes, to radio ahead if a passenger is showing symptoms.

Now, when a pilot is in the cockpit he has my full support, my unquestioned loyalty. If, however, the same pilot takes on a diagnostic role and leaves the cockpit to check my pulse and wipe my fevered brow then I may find myself the victim of another sharp rise in temperature.

Surely this distracts pilots from their primary task – to fly the contraption safely and to land it approximately on the designated runway at the designated airport. It is unfair to the pilots to take on the role of, literally, a flying doctor.

"Charlie, Delta Puma to tower, lined up for approach but have 14 coughers, three snifflers, and a couple of sneezers. Over."

"Tower to Charlie Delta Puma message received. Recommend passengers given a strong dose of honey. Clearance for landing withdrawn find somewhere else. Over."

And how ironic that the initials that make up SARS are so similar to the official, designated name for Hong Kong, the Special Administrative Region, or the SAR as it is fondly referred to on the masked streets of the former colony.

It used to be said that when Hong Kong sneezes the regional economies catch a cold. This has never been more true.