I complained last week about the typhoid Mary that had brought disease into the midst of our pod. A completely inaccurate description because he wasn't a Mary, and unlike the historical version he'd succumbed to the same disease he spread around rather than just being a carrier.
I complained about him because he'd passed his dirty little germs onto me, and they'd taken up residence in my beautiful warm moist nasal canal.
Over the weekend my spirits waxed and waned in tandem with my illness, but I came through relatively unscathed to join the working classes on a fine Monday morning with little more to show for my internal battle than a sexy-arse voice.
Well. It seems some cousins of my original germ family have decided that they like the view from my nasal cavity and have joined their relatives in squatting in my precious real estate.
Now, I'm okay with getting one cold every six months or so. Thems the breaks for being a social human. Thems also the breaks for being an anti-social human forced into a pretence of being social in order to earn a living.
But to have a cold less than a week after contracting my last cold is just not on. Not to mention that there I was celebrating my fantastic immune system that had run the rhinovirus out of town in less than a week, and I discover that meanwhile it failed to notice a bigger uglier version sneaking in the back.
And I know that this time it's not going to be an easy ride. Oh no. My internal bits are already downtrodden from the last viral load. They aren't ready to take another pounding. No wonder new tenants moved in. The inflamed surface must look like nice comfy padding to them.
There are over a hundred people on our floor. That means there are two hundred moist nostrils that these little critters could've called home. I suppose I should be flattered they chose me. I should be flattered they dragged their stinking sticky spiky selves into my deepest darkest places. But then again, I should be a lot of things.