I have a cold.
Or, to be more precise, a cold has me. Albeit - luckily - not quite by the short and curlies. Nasal pubes aside, of course.
I don't know why we call it a cold. I'm not even cold. On the contrary, I'm pretty hot right now. In a non-sexual kind of way. Indeed I would hazard that I am anything other than sexually enticing in my present condition.
The French call a cold a "rhûme," which is plain daft because I'm obviously not the least bit rheumatic in spite of my advancing years. Meanwhile the Germans, ever precise in their nomenclature, describe it as an "Erkältung," literally a "getting cold," which, as I mentioned above, is technically incorrect: falsch.
The most debilitating thing about being had by a cold, apart from the exhausting, incessant sneezing, tender nose and aching throat, is the endless supply of snot it generates, which far too quickly saturates my limited supply of tissues and which, for lack of suitable discardable single-use absorbent material, occasionally finds itself deposited on the back of my hand (always the right one) or, I'm embarrassed to admit, an adjacent sleeve. Though never those of adjacent people - at least to date.
I don't recall how I caught this cold. Not even ever having the slightest desire to obtain such a stupid, useless, energy- and tissue-depleting inconvenience; yet more evidence to suggest that the so-called "common" cold must stalk unsuspecting humans rather than the other way around (for stalk a cold I would certainly not. I have far better things to do).
And believe me, this is most definitely a common cold. There's nothing fancy - let alone noble - about a red-eyed, nose-drooling, headachy, expectorating late 40-year-old who can't even stop sneezing long enough to feel sorry for himself.
Or even wipe the mucus off his computer keyboard.