I’ve just recovered from my first winter cold. As someone who’s had pneumonia 3 times, died once, suffers with malignant hyperthermia and has a history of chest infections, this is always a worrying time.
On the one occasion I had the flu jab, I ironically and immediately got flu from it and was confined to bed for 3 weeks.
Me being exposed to any cold virus is similar to Superman coming into contact with Kryptonite.
How unlucky was he to be born on the planet Krypton and be surrounded by Kryptonite and be allergic to it?
That’s like being born on Earth and being allergic to oxygen. No wonder he moved out at a young age.
I’m surprised Channel 5 haven’t made a documentary about him: “The Guy Who’s Allergic To His Own Planet.”
This cold was caused by me going to London to watch football in an uncovered stand and taking a 3-hour soaking.
I stupidly hoped that my Karrimor jacket, a brand issued to police officers and mountaineers to shield them from the elements, would have given me some/any waterproof protection. Thankfully, I was able to laugh at the smug people wearing expensive but inappropriately titled SuperDry jackets getting SuperWet.
I used the return train as a laundry room, removing my wet clothes and hanging them from the luggage racks and flip-down trays (Think Nick Kamen in the 1980’s Levi ads – it was a bad version of that) and the following Monday, I visited my doctor – a man who, strangely, always seems to have colds.
Passing time in the waiting room, I tried to guess who has the stupidest name – congratulations to Lucy Tupp – and tried not to laugh at children with old people’s names, which failed when Arthur Hopkins embarrassingly flashed up on the electronic screen for all to see.
With one cold beaten, I now await my next inevitable winter cold in the same fearful way Ebenezer Scrooge awaited visits from Christmas ghosts.