I have a summer cold. My eyes feel as if they have been rammed into the back of my head by pokers, my chest tells me that a boa constrictor has wrapped itself around it, and the rest of my body is convinced that it does not belong to me but to the Michelin man.
Why are summer colds more painful and more difficult to shake off than proper winter ones? Perhaps germs thrive in warm weather or maybe it is simply nature mocking one, as others happily chatter outside street-corner cafés, and the victim lurches from room to room in a dressing-gown.
Feeling sorry for yourself, on top of being slightly less mobile than normal, generates an orgy of thinking, that is, once the drugs have worn off. One’s mind, as is customary at such times, turns for comfort to those who are having a truly super-rotten time. This is the most unattractive human trait, but there you are.
I started pondering Tony Blair but then concluded he’d had a pretty good run for his money as the Prince Charming of British politics, etc. I felt better when I thought of Alastair Campbell who once tried to insult me by saying I had a silly name, but decided that just like a cat he would always end up on his feet, as Napoleon remarked of Talleyrand.
So I turned to Mrs Blair. Why do so many of the press hate her so much? Yes, she has a Hammer sort of smile, yes, she has made mistakes of judgment, but none that led to the deaths of British servicemen. OK, the woman went and half-emptied a shop in Australia, but most of the stuff was for her children and she did pay for it.
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