I’m been getting over a bad-arse cold. It struck last Sunday, which was good, because it means I didn’t have to use sick leave on that day, but also sucked because it meant half my weekend consisted of feeling awful.
Being sick on a Sunday also posed another problem – the two local pharmacies were closed, and the effort of getting out to somewhere with an open chemist was too much. So, tragically, I was unable to partake of my favourite over-the-counter cold/flu remedy – you know, the stuff they make P from. My achy, snotty symptoms persisted.
I also discovered that hobbling down to the local shops in my weakly state was not a good idea, and especially not a good idea after waking up and not yet having anything to eat or drink. I found myself walking down the street with the realisation that if I didn’t sit down soon, I’d faint. I located a public bench and made a bee-line for it.
I waited until my energy levels had increased slightly and, in absolute survival mode, I walked around the corner to a dairy and bought some Lucozade. Another sit-down was required and after drinking the Lucozade, I was able to make the trip home.
Then that night I started itching. WTF? It was the return of the hives! Yes, the same affliction that had struck in sunny, tropical Samoa had returned for some more inflammation and itching. Every place on my body where my skin had undergone previous trauma had gone all itchy and red. It was like a greatest hits of every cut, scrape and graze I’d endured over the years.
So finally Monday came and I got my poorly arse along to the local medical centre where the doctor I saw prescribed some antihistamines. I was really excited by the tiny white pills. I mean, if pills are really small, they must be really powerful, right? Excited by my new drugs, I Googled them, only to discover it was generic Claratyne. Well, it did the trick – no more itching.
Another day on the couch and I was feeling relatively all right, except for a bit of an annoying phlegmy cough, so I finally got to get some stuff from the chemist.
The pharmacy lady recommended Benadryl Chesty Forte (which sounds like the name of an actress in a Russ Meyer film). Chesty Forte proudly proclaims to be “sugar, colour and alcohol free”, which sucks. I mean, if I have to put up with the inconvenience of a cough, I at least want something fun out of it in the form of sweetness, tiddliness or the diabolical side-effects that artificial colourings bring.
But just to add to the arseness of Chesty Forte, it also claims to have a “great berry flavour”. Well, after having consumed several 15ml doses of it, I can definitely say that there is nothing “great” nor “berry” about its flavour. It’s more like that tang you get when you drink orange juice after brushing your teeth.
I am very much looking forward to getting over this illness.