ANYONE WHO knows me at all knows that precious little keeps me from saying what's on my mind.

I'm a talker, from a long line of tongue-waggers and gum-flappers who need one thing only to start a conversation: a poor sucker to listen.

Last week, beset by a combination bug/infection/crud that attacked my lungs and larynx, something strange happened.

By Wednesday, I couldn't talk.

It wasn't that the malady made me feel so lousy that I didn't want to talk.

No, it hit me so intensely that by midday, when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.

That's a strange feeling, especially for a motor-mouth like me.

I was doing all the stuff I regularly do when I'm yakking, moving my lips, pushing the air, mapping the conversation out in my head.

But not the first snap, crackle or pop came out, not even a little gurgle.

It happened first on a phone call, as I was trying to reschedule an interview.

When you're talking without sound actually happening, transacting business becomes difficult.

After 30 seconds of lips moving with no sound, I shifted to a whisper interspersed with barks, grunts and whinnies.

Great. From thunder-gums to Mr. Ed, the talking horse.

Somehow, I managed to get my message across and off the telephone.

But I must have sounded pretty bad, because the person on the other end kept questioning the wisdom of us getting together the following day.

"Will you be OK by then?" they asked, judging from my demolished voice that I could pose a considerable infectious threat. "Maybe we should back it up a month or two?"

Though I eventually gave up and took a few sick days, I struggled through the rest of the afternoon to finish up a few things.

One of the funnier conversations of the day, in retrospect, was with someone in our office who handles the phone system.

Having forgotten a number I needed to get phone messages, I dialed this nice staffer up and told him my problem.

And it took me only four growls and a grumble to say it.