This time a year ago, I found myself participating in a broadcast alongside three vocalists. Present were a hip-hop artist with Ghanaian roots, a major pop celebrity, and an acclaimed classical singer. We were in the heart of winter. The previous evening, I’d been at an old friend’s 60th birthday, packed into a local bar's party area in a Surrey location. It was an enjoyable evening, however at that moment, simply to make conversation, I pondered how it was possible to avoid catching a cold with many partygoers were contributing to a chorus of sniffles and coughs. Incidentally, how come some people have nose-blows like trumpets, and some do not? Something to explore later.
At mention of my night out, these three musicians in the waiting area took two actions. Firstly, they shrunk away from me slightly. Next, they engaged in a feverishly enthusiastic discussion about preventing colds which expected because of their careers was a major concern for them. I understand that, but I'm also deeply invested – I must avoid colds at all costs as my symptoms are harsher than most. I don’t have a medical certificate to confirm this, but I know it to be true. My illnesses drag on. My nose is more blocked, my throat is scratchier, my coughs are harsher, more persistent and seem infinite. My relatives, alert to the initial throat noises indicating trouble ahead, often shoo me away or clear the room themselves. During my time hosting football on TV, my poor colleagues in the studio gallery grew attuned to the warning signs. “Headphones off!” the studio director would holler to the staff before I deafened them all, damaging their headset equipment.
When it comes to congestion, I could go on and on. Sprays, drops, even the sharp aroma of warm spirits my mother recommends … they provide temporary relief until they fail. It's hard to find something more pathetic as the sound of a Birmingham accent delivered with no nasal airflow. In other words, it sounds a bit nasally restricted at the best of times. Fortunately, this often brings compassion, which isn’t always a good thing. During my initial university year, separated from family care, the cleaner in our halls of residence took pity on me. “I have the perfect solution, you poor thing. Be right back.” She was extremely kind, distinctly Irish, and demanded I eat the uncooked, peeled onion she presented to me. She observed me eating it. Kind soul. No improvement resulted, I’m afraid, except for upsetting my stomach and making my breath smell terrible.
Thus, I hate colds and am convinced prevention beats cure which traditional or modern, fail to help. I focused carefully along with the rapper and the pop star as the singer detailed her prevention methods. With seasonal gigs on the schedule, she approached it with great diligence. She directed us to use hand gel hourly throughout the winter from what I gathered plus, there were special precautions required when it came to parties and what not. Ahead of any such engagement, she recommended a couple of blasts of Vicks First Defence through the nasal passages – even if healthy. Drastic. I like it. Moreover, she required a repeat application post-event with more spray of the product.
I adopted the method. And I can report I snuffled not once all last winter. It wasn't perfect: the numerous products I purchased, misplaced, bought again, rediscovered, etc. And that dispiriting moment you realise you’ve sat on the little vessel of hand gel you left in your back pocket and it's leaking all over. Still, all a price worth paying. With winter returning, I’m re-armed to the teeth with the mezzo-soprano’s recommended ordnance. I’m ready for battle.
Elena Vance is a film critic and entertainment journalist with over a decade of experience covering international cinema and industry trends.