Curing the common cold

Frequent readers of GofaDM (for whom no reward scheme yet exists) will be aware that it likes to operate on the cutting edge of fundamental scientific research.  This post should only enhance that reputation and I am quietly confident of a call from Norway in the not too distant future.

For the past fortnight, I have been suffering from a cold, or a series of colds, or a series of infections with cold-like symptoms.  This has (or these have) been no common cold: it has followed a very odd trajectory of infection and defensive response from my body.  Twice it has vanished entirely for 12-36 hours, only to return with increased virulence once it has lulled my humoral response into a false sense of security.  The general sequence of symptoms has also not been normal: I am starting to suspect that I have been infected by a cold virus which is travelling backwards through time.  This could be massive!  We’ve always assumed that it would be people, or robot killing machines which inexplicably look like people, with a vendetta against one or more grandparents that would herald the future development of time travel.  However, I may hold living proof (assuming you are willing to admit that viruses are alive) that the humble virus has beaten us to it!  Could there be some dire warning from the future coded into the DNA (or RNA: let’s face it, time-travel sounds like the sort of thing a retrovirus would do) of my virus?  I shall attempt to preserve a sample for future scientific study.

Such an unprecedented attack on my body has led me to explore some novel techniques to defeat my assailant and return to rude good health.  I clearly needed to move beyond the basic regimen of regular hot drinks – often involving blackcurrant, lemon and/or honey – and the nightly ministrations of a nurse: in capsule form.  So, on last Saturday last, I attempted to embarrass the virus out of me with a dose of SHOCC and awe.

Saturday was my semi-regular evening of English ceilidh dancing under the auspices of the cryptically named SHOCC: I’m guessing the SH might stand for South Hampshire and one of the Cs is probably ceilidh but the remaining OC is a mystery to me (never having caught the US teen drama). Not only did my unwelcome guest have to endure a whole evening of me dancing, but it had to suffer this experience while I was wearing shorts!  This is my fifth session of English folk dancing in recent months and I think I am finally getting the hang of how to strip the willow: possibly aided by the very clear calling of Fee Lock.  Excitingly, on this occasion I had a chance to disrobe my salix to the Doctor Who theme tune thanks to Tickled Pink, who were providing the music.  They were a rockier band than on previous occasions, but enormous fun and the melodeon player took their name seriously sporting a glitter-coated, shocking pink instrument: please feel free to extemporise your own gag about squeezing the pink box.

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Tickled Pink: with box and snake!  Get thee behind me, Satan…

There is something really glorious about these dances – and, shockingly, it is not just my tripping of the light fantastic.  I would confidently say that there were people from every decade of life from teens to seventies (and could well have been some under 11s and over 80s too – but it seemed rude to ask) all having a good time together and interacting with each other.  It struck me as a shining – and all too rare – example of the civil society which de Toqueville felt was such an importance buttress to any democracy (guess who’s up-to-date with In Our Time).  I had a wonderful time, with my favourite dance being the only one to eschew the usual powers of two and daringly use triplets of people: it was both foolishly energetic and sufficiently simple to be doable.

While I could mostly forget my cold while on the dance floor, when I awoke on Sunday morning it became clear that I had not managed to shame the virus into leaving my body.  If anything, it seemed to have benefited from the exercise…

Last night, rather than sit at home nursing my nose and cough, I decided to take them to the Guide Dog and expose them to some beer, company and fine music courtesy of the monthly acoustic session in the Dog House.  The music, company and three pints of Red Cat’s Mr M’s Porter worked some magic on my diseased body but it was inspiration gained while in the Guide Dog which I shall credit with my excellent night’s sleep and much reduced symptoms this morning.  I decided that what I needed at bedtime, rather than some paracetamol based tablet, was a hot toddy.  A quick internet search revealed that I would need whisky, lemon, honey, a cinnamon stick, cloves and boiling water.  As luck would have it, I possessed all of the necessary ingredients.  The cinnamon stick was a little old, dating back to a purchase in Crouch End in the late 90s, but this was positively youthful compared to the cloves.  I have an almost full jar of cloves (I can’t have used more than a couple) which are so old that they pre-date the concept of Best Before dates.  They come from Madagascar and I think they may have been sourced before it separated from the African continent: or at least from the 1980s!  Yes, a majority of my friends may be younger than my cloves.  Nevertheless, they had not obviously gone off and so in they went.  The only whisky on hand was a rather fine Highland single malt – sourced from that nice Mr Aldi – so that added a touch of class to the act.

This was my first ever attempt to make a hot toddy and it was an absolute triumph.  I think my spices may have matured with age!   So good was my first attempt, that I immediately followed it up with another.  At this rate, I may actually manage to use up my cloves before their component hadrons succumb to inevitable decay.  Let’s just say that tonight another couple will be visiting that country from whose bourn no traveller (or spice) returns.

The scientist in me recognises that both dancing and the consumption of a rather superior hot toddy are going to be tricky to organise as part of a double-blind trial.  For a start, I feel the patient will probably know if she is dancing at a ceilidh and I’m not quite sure what a suitable placebo dance might be.  However, these are mere details which I feel can safely be left to other more plebian minds to resolve: I am an ideas man!  I think I can confidently assert that humanity’s millennia of suffering neath the yoke of the common cold are almost at an end.

Feel free to continue the lunacy...

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