Atishoo, a tissue

In my long and arduous life I've had my fair share of illnesses. I remember a picture of me as a cherubic toddler with golden blonde curls appearing on the front page of the local paper, the Evening Argus, when I was in hospital aged about 4. Sadly, it was not me and (I vaguely recall) a teddy bear that occasioned this media exclusive, but the famous person who was visiting the hospital at the time who had also muscled in on the picture. I think it was someone like Princess Alexandra but sadly the news clipping has long since disappeared (as have the cherubic looks). That was the highspot on the illness front as, for some strange reason, they tend to be unpleasant events. The reason why I mention them now is because I have spent the last few days suffering with a cold.

These days, people tend to have flu or migraines rather than colds or headaches but this is a cold - simple as that. Shivers, runny eyes, snotty nose, coughing, sneezing, swollen glands, sweating are all here in abundance: none of them life threatening but, combined, a pretty unpleasant experience with which I am getting a little bored. Even the name is a bummer: the common cold is certainly not for me. An exclusive one I could live with but common? My Mother would not be happy with that!

The other thing about colds is that one doesn't get the sympathy as one does if, for example, you contracted Sumatran Swamp Goitre or something a little more exotic. I got meningitis when I was 16 and that certainly raised my stock in the comparitive illnesses league table. That was a high spot as was having my appendix out on my 10th birthday - a few brief moments of sympathy from the nurses before I braved the cockroaches in the sluice room of Southlands Hospital. Maybe that's the thing about illnesses, your brain remembers the (comparatively) good bits? Certainly, when I was in A& E the other week with Gertie the Gall-Bladder, the feeling of the morphine zooming round my body was a moment to treasure.

Of course, the epitome of illness is private health insurance which I had when I was working. Obsequious consultant surgeons ringing you to ask when you wish to come in, a proper tea service on a posh tray, wine lists and hot and cold running nurses made illness a veritable pleasure. These days however, I am doomed to a packet of Beechams, a soggy hankie and the knowledge that my body is now the equivalent of a rather battered Mark 2 Capri.

To quote as I presently sound - dat's dot fuddy.