That’s me. Two days after arriving in England I came down with a bloody cold. Sniffing, coughing, sneezing, whining. Lovely.
My uncle and aunt have taken great pleasure in reminding me this is all very déjà vu. When I arrived at their house 20 years ago I was a health disaster zone. They picked me up from the gutter (literally) in Earl’s Court where I had been deposited after finishing a three month overland from Kathmandu. Riddled with ugly bugs from India and Turkey, I was a mess.
Even the stiff-upper-lip local GP couldn’t hide her look of disgust when a disease-ridden colonial entered her rooms. She immediately put on rubber gloves. (Don’t blame her. I’m sure she would have preferred a breathing apparatus suit if she’d had one handy.)
No need for a doctor this time though. I have Steve, the super hero husband. He’s made a mercy trip to the local stores to pick up the usual healing supplies – earl grey tea (jumbo box), fresh raspberries, kiwifruit, crackers, cheese, tissues, pharmaceuticals.
So much for our visit to London, Bath and Colchester. All that is on hold until my immune system catches up with the germs.
Sniff.
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