In Virus Veritae

Oh who will rid me of this turbulent beast!

Apologies there to all historians and lovers of the myths of oral history for that dreadful pun.

My only excuse is that I am now in week 4; yes dear reader, week 4; of this damned cold.

You see I live in this lovely, friendly village.  People stop and chat at the local shop, we say hello as we pass in the road, we gather and listen to music in the pub.  Faces become familiar and then friends.

This must STOP.

We must barricade ourselves behind the doors of our houses and eschew company and social interaction, for in being a friendly village we are being hounded by what is becoming known as 'The Cold'.

According to the Daily Mail; a horrendous rag that I don't read (unless researching this years cold epidemic) and that is fit only to line the litter trays of cats if you are unfortunate enough to find it in your house - the paper, not the cat; we are in the throes of a cold epidemic.

Well I tell you what.....we know!

Wherever groups gather you'll hear  'have you had IT yet?', 'mine lasted 3 weeks', 'well I thought I'd got over it but it came back - do think it was another one?'. 

The village is littered with red eyed, red nosed people staggering from the doctors to the chemists like the living dead.

The surgery is full of people coughing, sneezing, wheezing and generally creating a picture of living misery as they wait for the lovely, sympathetic doctor to tell them it is a virus and they can do nothing except suffer, to go home, rest, take plenty of fluid (no not wine) and lemsip and to come back if it gets worse.

I know this as I was one of them when I woke up one morning and found my eyes were so gummed together I couldn't open them.  

I felt my way to the bathroom; ably assisted by the cat, who fulfilling the duties of all cats in this situation, tested my survivability by lurking underfoot; and bathed my eyes open.  As this followed four nights of continuous coughing and sleep deprivation and a throat so sore I thought evil fairies had been grating it in the night, I staggered to the doctors to receive the joyous news above.

For the past two weeks I have been at that point where I am sufficiently recovered to go back to work but not to do anything pleasurable.  I've sat at home sipping lemsip while Jean-Luc sips beer at the pub.  I have stared out at the rare spring sunshine and collapsed exhausted back on the sofa.

And I want it to end.

I want to stop coughing, sneezing and wheezing.

I want my weekends back.

I want my energy back.

I know I sound like a fractious toddler and that many other people have much worse than this to contend with; but as I finish my third box of tissues and drink my umpteenth lemsip, I don't care.  I am being determinedly selfish and shouting 

'Bugger this Bug!'