Upper Respiratory Tract Infection?

          There are two things about the ‘common cold’ that puzzle me, the first being its name. How did the cumulative symptoms of snuffling, dripping, sneezing and nasal congestion – viral infection of the upper respiratory tract – come to be called ‘a cold’? If we were starting afresh, I’m sure we could find a more appropriate name for it – one that does not confusingly associate the illness with ambient temperature. At school, we used to call it ‘the lurgi’ and, although that was a term we applied to any unpleasant medical condition, it did usefully imply that avoidance of contact with the afflicted person was essential. By comparison, to say that you “have a cold” does not sound sufficiently off-putting, given the real risk of contagion you pose to others.

          Which brings me to the other puzzling thing: you can catch a cold no matter how many oranges you eat. One per day is my target and, although my self-imposed ‘air-miles’ rule, whereby only European produce is acceptable, has made me fall short of late due to seasonal unavailability, I felt nonetheless that I did not deserve to catch a cold last week. I had imagined myself to be at the unassailable peak of health so, when I detected the first symptom – a soreness at the back of the nasal passage – my spirits drooped, even though, considering my partner had already succumbed, it was probably inevitable. She “gave” me her cold, despite knowing full well that we men suffer the symptoms much worse than women. She apologised, of course, but deep sympathy was hard to discern in her brisk, business-as-usual manner.

          I stocked up on tissues and ‘remedies’ (cures are not available) and prepared for the worst. Fortunately, I was far from bed-ridden, so my activities were not entirely curtailed. Except for, in the early, feverish phase, declining an offer to attend a jazz gig and opting instead for an early night with a mug of Lemsip, I kept up a fairly active programme. At the British Museum I saw the exhibition demonstrating the influence that Eastern art and culture had on Western artists and designers. In one example, a ceramic bowl produced in 19^th century Persia mimicked designs from 18^th century Europe which had, originally, been based on 17^th century Middle Eastern originals. It reminded me of how 1960s British pop music had taken black American music, repackaged it and returned it to America, where it found a white audience for the first time.

          I also made my way to Tate Modern, lured by the hype for the Olafur Eliasson exhibition. Now, it is a fact that one’s appetites and senses are dulled by the common cold, which may be why I was not moved by his work; or it may be that I would not enjoy it much, even in the bloom of health and vitality. I will look to test the argument in future. Likewise, Mona Hatoum’s sculptures at White Cube in Bermondsey aroused in me more curiosity than emotion. I hesitate to pronounce on art because – technique aside – its manifestations are observed subjectively. However, if pressed, I like Paul Klee’s explanation: “Art should be like a holiday: something to give a man the opportunity to see things differently and to change his point of view.” More to my liking, at the Barbican, was an exhibition of the various cabarets and clubs that were inspired by the modern art movement. In those establishments, the expression of art was brought to life by incorporation into décor, acts and philosophies, all of which were consumed socially and irreverently.

          I would like to make clear that, during my snuffling peregrination, I had tissues at the ready and kept a decent distance from others. I know what it’s like to have the lurgi, and I wouldn’t want to spread it around.