It is raining. Again. Which is not a bad thing, as it happens, because it discourages me from trying to get out into the garden, and I have a cold. Again.
It is not a bad cold. On Monday while I was gardening my nose ran like a leaky tap. I decided to ignore it, because I wanted to get on with things, and cold weather often makes my nose run (as does coming from the cold air of the street into the warm air of a room, which can be embarrassing). On Tuesday morning, I felt slightly stiff and disinclined to get going, but gardened anyway, because I had things to do. As I came in when it began to rain, just before dusk, I realised that there was no ignoring it, the cold was back. Or a different one.
They are strange things, colds. The words 'just a' are customarily appended to the admission that one has a cold, to differentiate it from flu. Which is fair enough. Flu can be a very nasty illness. At best you are incapacitated, and at worst you die, whereas outside satirical sketches by Bernard Levin people do not die of a cold in the head. Colds vary in severity, though, from very mild sniffles to disgusting, mucus filled, aching marathons that leave you fuddled and below par for weeks. This one feels at the lower end of the spectrum, and I'm moderately optimistic that if it were going to turn into a bad one it would have got worse, faster, by now.
In the meantime I feel vaguely guilty and incompetent for having it, as if I have brought it on myself through some unwise behaviour. Either that, or it reflects badly on my immune system. Which is silly. Living in a warm, cocooned bubble, never venturing outside (cold air) or meeting other people (germs) is not a realistic way of life (unless you are Emma Woodhouse's father). The Systems Administrator, by way of consolation, told me how many Radio 2 presenters had sniffles, and guests missing from their shows because of colds, but it didn't really make me feel any better about having one myself.
We know the common cold is an endlessly mutable virus, which has defied all attempts to date to find a cure or a vaccine. Millions suffer, and would willingly pay for a treatment. That's just the sort of illness the drug companies like, so much more rewarding than some obscure fatal disease that only affects a few thousands annually, and yet Big Pharma has not yet come up with anything. Nor has the herbal, homeopathic end of the market got a convincing answer. Perhaps if I ate echinacea extract daily I might save myself, but I don't think it's proven. So I should not feel inadequate that my immune system has been mildly caught out by something that affects virtually every other person on the planet, while defying the best efforts of the world's pharmaceuticals industry.
It could just be a case of old fashioned middle class guilt. I am a high achiever, ergo, anything that goes wrong in my life, however slightly, reflects badly on me. I think the current barrage of government sponsored and media health advice has more to to do with it. We are told so often that so many of our behaviours will make us ill. Smoking, drinking, being overweight, not taking enough exercise, wrapping your food in cling film, they'll all give you cancer. Eat too much and get fat, and you'll get heart disease and diabetes, and your joints will collapse. Sleep for too few hours, or sleep the wrong sort of sleep, live near a busy road or under a flight path, lack control over your working conditions, fail to find a job at all, be married, stay single, umpteen behaviours and life choices are all now said to make us ill.
The idea of being a normal, healthy person who has randomly contracted a common germ through no fault of their own seems almost too incredible to contemplate.
*Don Marquis, in case you were wondering
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