Around this period the previous year, I was participating in a broadcast in the company of three performers. Included were a hip-hop artist with Ghanaian roots, a well-known pop singer, and an acclaimed classical singer. The coldest season was upon us. The night before, I attended a longtime friend's 60th birthday, crammed into the function room of a pub somewhere in Surrey. It had been a good night, however at that moment, to break the silence, I pondered how one could prevent getting a cold with many partygoers were part of an orchestra of winter ailments. Incidentally, how come some people have nose-blows like trumpets, and some do not? A question for another day.
At mention of my night out, the group of artists backstage at the TV studio took two actions. To begin with, they shrunk away from me slightly. Secondly, they started a passionate debate on how to avoid catching colds which expected because of their careers was a major concern for them. I understand that, but I'm also deeply invested – I must avoid colds at all costs because the colds I get are worse than anyone else’s. I don’t have a medical certificate to confirm this, but I firmly believe it. My colds last longer. I experience worse nasal blockage, my throat feels rougher, my coughing fits are louder, barkier and apparently endless. My family, wise to the couple of quick throat-clearances which herald the coming storm, either kick me out of the room or leave themselves. During my time hosting football on TV, the unfortunate crew in the control room learned to recognize the signals. “Cans off!” the director would shout to everyone prior to me blasting their ears, overloading their audio gear.
When it comes to congestion, I could go on and on. Sprays, drops, even the sharp aroma of warm spirits my mum prescribes … they all work for a while before giving up. Nothing is quite as sad than a Brummie tone uttered with blocked nasal passages. I mean, it sounds a bit nasally restricted at the best of times. At least this elicits sympathy, which isn't ideal. In my first year away at university, away from my mum and her medicinal brandy, the janitor in our dorm showed me kindness. “I know exactly what you need, you unfortunate soul. Be right back.” She was very lovely, very Irish, and demanded I eat the uncooked, peeled onion she presented to me. She monitored my consumption. Bless her. No improvement resulted, I’m afraid, apart from sending my guts into raptures and making my breath smell terrible.
Therefore, I hate colds and am convinced prevention beats cure which traditional or modern, don’t work. I listened intently alongside my colleagues when the mezzo-soprano walked us through her cold avoidance regime. Due to upcoming holiday performances, she approached it with great diligence. She directed us to use hand gel hourly during the cold months as far as I could deduce and, there were special precautions required for social events and gatherings. Ahead of any such engagement, she suggested a few applications of a nasal spray up each nostril – whether you felt a cold coming or not. Drastic. It appealed to me. Moreover, she mandated a second dose after the party with another couple of squirts of the same stuff.
I was in. And I must admit I remained cold-free. It wasn't perfect: the many containers I acquired, misplaced, repurchased, located, etc. And that dispiriting moment you realise you’ve sat on the little vessel of hand gel stored in your pocket and it’s now splurging everywhere. Still, an acceptable trade-off. As the cold season approaches once more, I'm stocked up with her prevention arsenal. I'm prepared to combat.
A tech journalist with over a decade of experience covering emerging technologies and digital innovation across global markets.
