Cold Wave!

It’s official. We are having a heat wave. In London yesterday temperatures reached 31 degrees Celsius. On Facebook everyone is out and about enjoying the sun, having barbeques, going swimming in the local lido, picnicking or just sitting in a beer garden with a nice refreshing pint.
Last night a friend texted me to see what I was up to this weekend. She fancied going to a festival in Hyde Park. As wonderful as it sounded, I had to say no. Why? Because, my dear friends, I have a cold. In the middle of summer.
The irony is painful. At least when you get a cold in the winter it makes linguistic sense. But in the middle of a heat wave? I can’t figure out if I’ve got a temperature or am just hot. The only thing I am sure of is that when I go all shivery my natural instinct is to snuggle under the duvet with a hot water bottle, which is just bonkers, because as soon as it passes I’m just smothered again. I’d normally have a constant supply of tea and hot lemon, but that is out of the question so I’m trying to top up my Vitamin C levels with iced Ribena.
Having a cold is annoying at the best of times. I don’t consider myself to have flu – having had the real thing in the past I know it renders you incapacitated. But lacking in energy to do anything even remotely constructive (other than moaning on my blog of course) but feeling well enough to want to do something vaguely interesting is frustrating at the best of times. But when the sun is shining and the British weather is actually delivering something approximating a summer? That’s just cruel.
I could go and sit on my terrace of course. But that would mean I’d have to slather myself in sun cream and put up with an unpleasant combination of greasy-chip sun protection with clammy skin. It would also be more difficult to regulate my temperature, which is proving a challenge in the shelter of my shady flat, let alone if I was to brave the great outdoors.
So here I am, sat on my bed with my netbook whilst everyone else is outside having fun. Him Indoors is trying to be sympathetic and suggested we watch a DVD in the evening. I smiled sweetly and bit my lip, resisting the temptation to scream “WHOOPEE DOO!” hysterically before snotting all over him. The thing is I do hold him responsible. He had Man Flu last weekend, and now I have a cold. And whereas he managed to get away with puppy dog eyes and a pet lip, my grouchiness does not seem to be winning me any favours. Hence why I am banished to the bedroom and he is plugged into the X Box in the front room.
It’s not that I want your pity, or even a show of sympathy. Just please remember me whilst you are sunbathing in Regents Park, swimming in the sea or tucking into a Cornetto. And please, when you show off your healthy tan in the office come Monday morning, don’t pass comment on my pasty complexion. Because I might just still be infectious...