At this point last year, I was filming a television show alongside three vocalists. Included were a hip-hop artist with Ghanaian roots, a major pop celebrity, and a famous mezzo-soprano. The coldest season was upon us. Just the night prior, I’d been at an old friend’s 60th birthday, packed into a local bar's party area in a Surrey location. It was an enjoyable evening, however at that moment, just for something to say, I wondered ways to dodge the common cold as numerous attendees were contributing to a chorus of sniffles and coughs. Incidentally, why do certain individuals blow their noses so loudly, while others are quieter? A question for another day.
The Response from the Singers
At mention of my night out, the group of artists in the TV green room responded in two ways. Firstly, they edged away from me. Secondly, they engaged in a feverishly enthusiastic discussion on how to avoid catching colds that expected because of their careers was almost an obsession. I get that, but I'm also deeply invested – I must avoid colds at all costs since my colds are more severe than others'. There's no doctor's note to prove it, yet I'm certain it's factual. My colds last longer. My nasal passages are more congested, my throat feels rougher, my coughing fits are louder, barkier and apparently endless. My relatives, alert to the initial throat noises indicating trouble ahead, sometimes banish me or evacuate the area. Back when I presented football on ITV, the unfortunate crew in the control room learned to recognize the signals. “Headphones off!” the director would shout to everyone to avoid auditory overload, overloading their audio gear.
Handling Stuffy Noses
When it comes to congestion, don't get me started. Nasal sprays, decongestants, even the electric shock of fumes of boiling plum brandy my mother recommends … they provide temporary relief before giving up. It's hard to find something more pathetic as a Midlands dialect delivered with no nasal airflow. In other words, it can sound nasal even normally. At least this elicits sympathy, though that's not necessarily beneficial. During my initial university year, separated from family care, the janitor in our dorm showed me kindness. “I know exactly what you need, you dear. Be right back.” She was extremely kind, with a strong Irish accent, and adamant that I consume the uncooked, peeled onion she presented to me. She monitored my consumption. Goodness gracious. No improvement resulted, unfortunately, other than causing digestive turmoil and creating bad breath.
The Singer’s Prevention Strategy
So no, I hate colds and am quite sure that prevention is better than the cures which traditional or modern, are ineffective. I paid close attention then alongside my colleagues while she explained her health practices. With seasonal gigs on the schedule, she clearly took it all very seriously. She directed us to apply hand sanitiser on the hour, every hour all winter long from what I gathered plus, there were special precautions required during festivities. Ahead of any such engagement, she recommended a couple of blasts of a preventive product up each nostril – even if healthy. Intense. I appreciated it. And, listen to this, she required a repeat application post-event with more spray of the product.
What Happened Next
I followed suit. And I can report I remained cold-free. There were drawbacks: the countless bottles of First Defence I bought, misplaced, repurchased, found, and so on. And the disappointing instant when you discover you've crushed the hand sanitizer kept in your jeans and it's leaking all over. Nevertheless, an acceptable trade-off. With winter returning, I'm fully prepared with the singer's suggested supplies. I’m ready for battle.
