The instant I wake each day, I detach my mind and let it soar like an RAF reconnaissance plane over my body, its radar scanning for trouble spots. I lie there, a quiet landscape, a citadel of flesh and blood, while my radar picks out an inflammatory heat source there, a sneaky bacterial hi-jacker there, an invading army of streptococchi creeping down the tunnel of my nostril, or an alien fungus settling into a nice new home between my toes.
This morning, all was quiet. Stiff Shoulders reminded me that they were there, then shrugged and got on with the business of being shoulders. Then *cough, throat-clear, sniff*; oh no, Military Intelligence had failed to identify a minor player in this daily drama, Claggy Catarrh.
I grew up in South Liverpool. Whenever a stinky wind blew from the Stanlow Oil Refinery, the entire house shook to a cacophony of coughs and throat clearing, from Dad to Sandy the cat. Whether that was the start I do not know, but ever since, from time to time, Claggy Catarrh has bugged me. 18 months ago I caught possibly the worst cold of my life. Perhaps it was optimistic of me to wear a swimsuit in the sea in North Cornwall in October when all around were wearing wetsuits, even the seagulls. All I know is that, after half an hour of attempting to swim three strokes between breakers, I turned blue and started to shiver. Chill became cold, cold was defeated a fortnight later but ever since, Claggy Catarrh has been a pest, especially at night.
At present I am trying Bioforce's Plantago drops. It may be my hopeful imagination, but the slurry appears to have dried up to a mere sheen at the back of my throat. I shall keep you posted.
(Disclaimer. I have no links with any companies. All remedies discussed in this blog are ones that I have tried myself, or ones that other sufferers have recommended.)
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