A Cold in the Head

New Zealand Listener, Volume 29, Issue 733, 31 July 1953, Page 4

A Cold in the Head

T this time of the year it is easy for the unwary to feel complacent. They have passed through the early part of ‘winter: June and July are behind ‘them, swept away on a procession of clouds which have unloaded ‘much rain on our moist islands. Stirrings in the garden, where bulbs are pushing green sheaths ‘through the soil, and the earlier matins of birds who had been keeping sluggard- hours in their nests, are among the broader hints that spring is coming. The sun will soon be warmer, and will stay longer. Once again, with the incurable optimism of our species, we forget the wind and the rain and the sharp changes of temperature which can make spring months the hardest of the year. This time, however, it May be different. Two hard winters in succession must surely mean an early and dry summer. There have been signs and strange burgeonings: the pohutukawa, our Christmas tree, has been said_here and there to have flowered out of season. Under the influence of hopeful omens we begin to tell ourselves, and our friends, that the worst is over. And best. of all, the Enemy has been kept firmly under restraint. This, of course, is the virus or germ which seéms to be responsible for large numbers of complaints that are described tersely, and perhaps with considerable inaccuracy, as "the ’flu." In a central position, and possibly the infection which broadens into most of our seasonal ailments, is the common cold. For medical science it is the subject of loving research, the small citadel which refuses to fall while one by one the major diseases are brought under control. But for plain people -and sometimes, too, for the scientists-it is a loathed and treacherous disorder, sapping their strength when théy need it most, filling their minds with gloomy thoughts, making them hateful to

themselves and dangerous to their fellows. It is unpredictable, and will strike with impartial severity in a wet or dry spring. If the weather is seasonable, colds are to be expected; if it is unusually mild, we learn that infections are bound to be virulent in conditions so far from normal. There is no escape; and perhaps, whatever the weather may be, we are really suffering a reaction from the long resistance to frost and wind. Our defences are weakened, and sooner or later there comes the delicate tickling in the throat, the humiliating running of the nose, the bronchial raspings, the fever and the aching. At such times a man wants to cling to his bed; and if he is wise he will stay there for a day or two, passing through the fire and the sweat, and the waves of selfpity, until he knows himself to be fit again for human company. Even then, however, he cannot feel altogether safe. To have had a cold is by no means a promise of future immunity. He must travel on trains, buses or trams; and around him are people who sneeze and cough with a sort of studied brutality, making no efforts to use handkerchiefs — or using them too late, long after the infected droplets have been sent abroad on their deadly mission. New Zealanders are a_chesty people. To be among them at this time of the year, and to hear the competitive coughing, is to wonder at the toughness which keeps them alive, and apparently robust, while in such a state of internal commotion. Yet one by one they fall away, and are not seen in their accustomed places-until, wan and chastened, they return with news of a tussle with the Enemy. "A lot’ of ‘flu about just now," they say, with a reminiscent and thoughtful cough. And so there is, now and always, while through the lengthening days we go eines into summer,