Where I grew up, you knew who gave you a cold. You were either at home, at school, at work or with your impossibly large-breasted 17-year-old girlfriend in her impossibly large house, praying that her father didn't own a shotgun like all the other bumpkins. As such, when your face became infested with snot and sniffles, and your head felt like you'd been paintballing, you knew who it was. That's because you lived with your family, you knew who was blowing greenies all over the playground, and if the girl who was far too good for you in the first place had a cold she'd be bitching and moaning about it as if it were your fault.
Unfortunately I don't live there anymore, I live in London. As my throat starts to do its impression of a chainsaw blade, I don't know who to blame. Suddenly, I could've got it anywhere. London is a great city, but disease-free it ain't.
In this case I can be pretty sure I haven't caught it from my flatmates. We're quite close and the lucky wenches seem to be in decent health at the moment - until I get home that is, and breathe my lurgy all over them. The guy next to me at work must be a decent candidate, snorting and sniffling as he is. But it's not that simple. To put it bluntly, I could've picked this thing up anywhere between home and nine tube stops away where I work.
And that's the thing about London. If you're going to get ill anywhere, you're going to get ill here. The air is full not only of pollutants, but also viruses and diseases, and anyone commuting through the murk is likely to pick something up.
So before I start accusing people and directing my nasal-sounding revenge threats at them, I thought I'd take a different approach: if you've given me a cold, act like a grown-up and step forward. I'm not angry...I'm just disappointed.
And you must be punished.
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