For two years (since the start of 2020, when this crazy epidemic got going in the UK), I haven’t had a cold, flu – nothing. And I’ve still been lucky enough to avoid Covid, the whole time, too.
Of course, this has largely been due to the fact that I’ve been wearing a facemask everywhere. I actually don’t mind wearing them at all. I now sometimes wear them outside just to keep my face warm. Why not? Nobody likes having cold teeth, do they?
Anyway, in the last few weeks Boris Johnson has decided Covid no longer exists… and that we should all go face-maskless in a crazy, carefree, 1960s, throw-off-your-bras-and-burn-them kind of a way.
Which has meant that people are now having work-meetings without masks. And I’ve had to go to several of these stupid meetings.
And this is probably why, today, I’ve finally woken up with a stinking cold.
God, I’d forgotten how ghastly it is. The grogginess. The sore throat. The trying-not-to-appear-ill on the train (now far more socially awkward, than it ever was, since a bad case of the sniffles can actually lead to death). Worst of all, no longer being able to enjoy takeaway coffees on the way to your work, because your whole body is shouting ‘don’t drink this shit! It’s bad for you!’
The second day of my cold, I work from home. I collapse into my home office, huffing and puffing, sniffing and snorting, generally feeling very sorry for myself.
There’s a gap at the top of the wall, which divides this room from the adjacent one, and I can hear Lizzie shuffling about next door. She’s probably organising her paints.
I cough, pathetically, just to let her know that even though I’m feeling pretty rotten, I’m still working incredibly hard, so that makes me pretty damned amazing, doesn’t it?!
I expect Lizzie to say something sympathetic, over the top of the wall, but instead she sniggers and starts to make over-the-top, guttural ‘I’ve got a cold’ noises…
KAFF… KAFF… KAFF… she hacks, weakly, as if doing a grotesque parody of Tiny Tim.
‘UUUhhhhhhh-aaaaaaahhh…’ she moans, mockingly.
‘Hhhhffffffffuhffffruhhhurrrr…’ she groans, sounding an awful lot like she’s trying to pronounce the name of Dr. Hfuhruhurr from The Man with Two Brains.
Finally, I’ve had enough.
‘You’re just jealous,’ I say, ‘because I’M the ill one now!’
Lizzie’s sniggers drift over from the other side of the wall.
‘It’s like,’ I holler, ‘you’re the only one who’s ever allowed to be ill from now on, ISN’T IT?’
Lizzie doesn’t reply… just continues making her sub-human ‘I’ve got a cold’ noises.
‘Heeeeeeeeeerrrrkk… gllaaaaaaaaaaaa… eeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… KAFF… KAFF… KAFF...’
P. D. Clifton 
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