You know those ads where the boss is suspicious of the employee who has seemingly bounced back to full health after a day off? The ones where the employee waves a a sachet of powder and the voice over tells you that cold and flu symptoms can be banished with one hot drink?
Don’t believe them. I am about my tenth sachet, and although it might mitigate some of my symptoms, I am by no means ready to trip the light fantastic or even get a bus into town.
My cold started on Thursday. A suspicion of a sore throat. By Thursday evening my nose was running like a tap. I was doing the tissue relay. Early to bed, and one of those sachets after breakfast, and I got through work. Though I wish to apologise to all those who were close when I was sneezing. After work I had planned to go to Trafalgar Square and photograph the Paralympic Agitos, but I felt pretty washed out so headed home, buying three boxes of tissues en route.
That turned out to be my best move, because when I woke up yesterday morning I found my cold had taken the opportunity to sneak into my back and snake itself around my spine. It had rolled up my tongue so it felt over large and flabby. It had clawed my throat and hung itself in Smartie sized drops of pain around my head. My skin was hot and dry. My legs were wobbly, and only NotCat’s insistent demands got me out of bed and down the stairs. I spent most of the day asleep, waking to drink glass after glass of water.
This morning the pain still hung around my head, and my joints ached, but I realised with a rush of pleasure that I was hungry, that coffee seemed a nice idea. It’s not been the most energetic of days. I still haven’t made it to Trafalgar Square, but it shouldn’t be long now.