It's going around," say people sympathetically when you explain to them that you are feeling under the weather and have a cold that won't go away.

For two weeks now I have been battling with an irritating cough and a throat that feels like I've swallowed an ash tray. My eyes have been streaming, my head aching and my body feels like it's been in an episode of Fort Boyard.

I have not been able to breathe without the help of special foul-tasting sweeties though I shouldn't complain about this too much: I have lost my appetite and been in no mood to rush off to the takeaway and ingest family-sized donner kebabs and a dozen samosas. (I've lost my sense of taste to such a degree that were I in the mood I would have been able to do something really disgusting like watch Channel Five or consume quantities of once stomach-churning vegetables like turnips, aubergines and celery without having a tantrum. Not that I have recently had any energy to have a tantrum, however).

What is it about this time of year which brings an onslaught of coughs, sneezes and infections? Could it be the cold? Whatever it is, it's all a nuisance. Being ill is no fun especially when you still have to carry on doing the things you do when you are well such as breathing, walking, talking and looking after children and cannot drape yourself over the sofa with your duvet and boss everyone around as they ply you with aspirin and sympathy.

Watching tv is usually a pleasurable activity- but not if you are ill. In fact, it is not interesting at all when you haven't got the energy to hunt for the remote control (it is probably under the sofa but if you hang your head upside down you will probably spontaneously combust).

And what could possibly be more exciting when your senses have been dulled? Even the soaps which you are usually glued to have limited appeal. Last week, the nation mourned the death of good old Des from Coronation Street and wondered how anyone could suffer a massive heart attack as a result of hitting their head on a coffee table, but you were shedding tears yourself. "I can't breathe," you tried to scream at your nearest and dearest while they told you to shut up and die quietly while they paid their last respects to Des.

Oh, life is cruel. People care more about soap characters than real people, especially when you are in such a state and need lots of care and assurances about your appearance. When I am poorly I have a tendency to sleep with my mouth open, an even less attractive sight than sleeping with my mouth shut. I have an entourage of toilet paper following me (for nosewiping purposes I hasten to add) and I go to bed with a pack of Lemsip by my side in case I wake up in the middle of a fevered dream and am unable to go back to sleep without medicinal help.

Of course, the drugs don't work. I have rubbed Vick into my neck, chest, back and felt no difference, and in desperation tried to eat the stuff. It still made no difference.

After another couple of weeks if I am lucky I will be up and about and bump into sniffling people who will ask how I have been. " Oh, yes," they'll say, "there's a lot of it about," and sneeze all over me.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.