Catching a Cold

I have a head cold this week. I caught it at the weekend when I went somewhere that was infested with children. Now I didn’t know it would be infested with children before I went, otherwise I’d have called the pest extermination service and had it dealt with prior to my arrival. As it was, clearly one of the unruly devil spawn had a cold and I was infected with it.
I’m not the sort of man who makes out that every sniffle is rampant nose cancer and I might die of mucul haemorrhaging at any moment, although I don’t entirely discount the possibility. In fact, since I am afflicted with a cough as well as a cold this time, I’m probably far more likely to have lung cancer. Not that I smoke but here in the UK, we have banned smoking from all indoor public places - pubs, restaurants, and a myriad of other locations I would never set foot in willingly - forcing smokers to go outside when they want to light up. This transfers smoke from the sorts of places I don’t visit, to put it outdoors, where I can hardly avoid it. So lung cancer is a distinct possibility now.
Whether it proves fatal or not, having a cold is not fun. Generating enough snot to float a small navy is most certainly not on my good-times list. So it follows that those who spread colds around - like the juvenile Satan that gave this one to me - should be treated as outcasts and, although I don’t necessarily agree with the death penalty, it is difficult to argue against why anyone in a public place with a cold shouldn’t be gunned down on sight. Apparently, this is a minority view.
In fact, in my experience, most people who venture out with any form of illness short of bubonic plague expect to be congratulated for it, as if infecting half the world with their ailment is their gift to humanity. Some people with colds even look at their handkerchiefs when they have blown their noses into them, as if somehow the slime they have ejected from their nasal cavity might have formed into a work of art on the damp scrap of material they hold in their hand. Once, I even had someone show me their revolting discharge, as they thought it was so impressive, and, no, I am sadly not joking.
How many times have I sat next to someone, only to be regaled with how they struggled out of bed, having hacked up half a lung in the process, and dragged themselves to my side spewing out their germs to all and sundry in great surges of spittle. Then they expect me to say how brave they are and how grateful I am that they made the effort when all I really want to do is to shoot them in the head.
If people with colds confined themselves to social isolation, we would quickly eradicate the virus, and winter would be ailment free. We did it with leprosy. If we herded anyone with a cold into groups and moved them offshore for a week or so, and then insisted they rang a bell before they entered a public place for a few weeks thereafter, it should be more than sufficient.
As for me, I’ll continue to drink plenty of fluids, although I’m not sure why as I just pour them into my mouth and they pour straight back out of my nose (and, no, I’m not standing on my head when this happens), and wait for my next Paracetemol fix. Two hours, thirty-nine minutes, and twelve seconds to go. Not that I’m counting.
And then, when I’m recovered, I’m going to buy a job lot of surgical masks, or maybe a gas mask, and wear it every time I go out. Maybe whilst holding a sign that reads ‘No, I’m not impressed that you struggled out of bed to come here and blow snot and spittle across my face. If it were up to me, I’d have you garrotted and buried in quick lime’.
Do excuse me now as I need to blow my nose, again.