As soon as I returned from South Wales, the usual cold symptoms began. And it was 'just a cold' - I didn't have a high temperature, for instance (and that has remained the case). But the symptoms - a runny nose, nasal congestion, formation of catarrh, endless coughing to expel the same, and a general feeling of unwellness - have persisted longer than I would expect. It's as if my bodily defences were not battle-ready and have let me down.
And perhaps that was exactly the case, that my anti-cold defences were slack. After all, I haven't had a cold like this since 2019. The enforced social distancing and lockdowns that were our lot while Covid was rampant ensured that lesser infections simply did not occur. So I think that the white blood cells detailed to attack ordinary cold viruses as soon as they might appear got lazy and were caught napping. No doubt my body has been working overtime ever since to remedy this, and I dare say some progress has been made, but it has come too late to avert more-than-normal discomfort and inconvenience.
It's the lack of sleep that really bothers me. The pattern night after night has been to go to bed hoping that despite the catarrh I will get a good night's rest. But it fails to happen. Horizontal slumber is impossible. I have ended up sleeping on the recliner in the lounge, dressing gown on and a quilt spread over me, half-sitting up just to breathe. I manage to snatch a couple of hours' sleep that way, and a bit of kipping during the day tops up my total to about five hours daily. But it's hardly quality slumber.
Meanwhile my pre-Christmas social life has had to be binned. The past week would have been quite crowded with people to see or meet up with. All cancelled, one event after the other. I hate turning down invitations, or in any way letting people down when they can usually rely on my saying yes. But it has to be. Take tonight, for instance. An invitation to enjoy a meal with local friends, followed by cards. But as I type this, I am coughing and my nose is running again. It's almost evening, and that's when my cold will thicken up and I will gradually fade. And it's cold and damp outside. However much I'd prefer not to be a party poop, it's obvious what I ought to do. Stay indoors; not go out; edge my recovery forwards, not backwards. And if I'm still infectious, which I probably am, not pass it on.
Daytimes are much more bearable. Even if I awake bug-eyed and bunged up, I've generally felt much better by mid-morning. In fact, I've managed to fire up Sophie and go out for some fresh air every other day. But by mid-afternoon it all starts to unravel a bit. Still, I'm definitely improved from a few days ago, so a get-better trend seems to have set in, and I'll be all right for Christmas. Unless I'm all wrong. You can't tell with this particular cold.
I hear that half the people in the country are suffering the same thing. So I shouldn't make too much of a fuss.
