A Cold Chrimbo

So, been a long time friends, but here I am once again! And, here we are at my favorite time of year in London - - Christmas! I am convinced that the only place better than London for this festive season is Germany (and that is just because they have a whole town devoted to solely Christmas!). One of the best things about Christmas in London is that there is no religious PC anything here – nope, no need to talk about Kwannukahmas Fairies, “winter wonderland” parties or, as I was once vociferously chastized by the post woman at my old law firm, “holiday” stamps (Sorry, I didn’t realize Christmas stamps were offensive!).




Nope, not here, you can talk all you want about Christmas, Chrimbo, X-mas etc. and while you may be foolish enough to think that it is because they don’t have Thanksgiving to unite them in food coma-ville, it is really about the national pastime – yep, you guessed it.



Drinking.



Champagne, mulled wine, port….it is just party party party from December 1 until January 2, at which point everyone seems to either abstain for a month in a self-flagellation-style detox or indulge even more in a “hair of the dog” reminiscent month-long hangover cure.



And, natch, no work is really done during this time – how can you when you are leaving work early for Christmas lunches or catch-up drinks with old colleagues or friends or your team Christmas drinks or your department black tie Christmas party etc. etc. And, then the ensuing hangover, when 11 am seems too early of a start, so why not just wait until lunch time and sneak in then as if you just popped out for a sandwich? Of course, by then it is almost time to cut out early for a post-work drink. So, tada, a full day completed!



Now, the downside of all this revelry is, of course, your health suffers. Your immune system is at an all-time low, your clothes no longer fit, you’re haggard and your skin looks sallow. Which, at first, is manageable as everyone else is constantly teetering on the edge of the intoxication/hungover precipice, so you just look like everyone else.



And, then it snows.



Now, don’t get me wrong, snow is beautiful. London, covered in snow, is absolutely magical. Which, is a good thing, as you will be stuck here. The whole country comes grinding to a halt – at least those that are putting in their solid 2 hours per day! (see above if you are confused)



For some reason, every winter, there is shock and awe at this frozeny-white stuff that floats down and coats everything in a glassy slippery airplane-skidding, train track-blocking and road impasse-ing stuff. Sand trucks? Snow ploughs? Now, why on earth would anyone need those? So, instead everything shuts down. Hmmm. Now that I think about it, perhaps it is all a big plot to join the Chrimbo work avoidance revelry? Just sayin’….



But, I digress.



So, now, you’re run down. And frozen. Guess what comes next? Yep, you guessed it. And it always starts the same way, tickly throat, aches and pains and then progresses to full on stuffy, congested, hacking, feverish blah. Well, feverish if you are lucky, that is. Because the beauty of free healthcare is that everyone has access. And, the downside of free healthcare is that EVERYONE has access. So, the system gets a tad bit overwhelmed. I didn’t realize this when I first moved here and I made the mistake of going to the doctor when I felt ill.



Turns out you need a sucking chest wound or a lung protruding from your mouth to get any drugs.



Oh, you’ll get your share of “tea and sympathy” (or actually, if you have an American accent, a little less on the sympathy. I actually had a doctor once say to me, “We don’t give out antibiotics here like you do in the States.” To which, I replied, “Oh you mean to sick people?” Because, while I must admit that this point is pretty fair – coming from a country where you can “shop” for the doctor who gives you the best service (which is code for a Z-pack!), in that particular case, I happened to fly the next day to the US, where I had to go to an emergency clinic to get those oh-so-elusive antibiotics for bronchitis, a sinus and throat infection.)



Other wonderful tips and techniques that friends have gotten from a fruitless trip to the doctor (or GP as we call them: General Practitioner, apparently, despite the more obvious Generally Parsimonious (with the good stuff!)) include “you just need to boil some onions and drink that” and my all-time favorite: “you just need a pocketful of patience!” Hmmm. In hindsight, a trip to the GP, where I am stuck sitting in the waiting room with other hacking and snuffling people, is more of a threat to my health than a step towards feeling better. So, I stopped going.



And, sure enough. I healed. No drugs, no onions, but lots of patience. And, five years and countless colds later, I now know the difference between a cold and an antibiotic-requiring infection. (I won’t gross you out with the differences, but suffice it to say it involves varying colors of mucus).  Of course, this difference escapes all men, British or otherwise, hence the new term “man-flu,” which we all know is just a cold.

And, while you might try to call it the flu (man, or otherwise) it is still just a cold.  And, again, while you can feel pretty badly with a cold, you still aren’t getting any drugs. Note that it also doesn’t help to be able to name these drugs. For, while it is second nature to Americans to rattle off brand names and generics thanks to our overabundance of lobbying and advertising from the pharma companies, asking your doctor at the public hospital for codeine, demorol, darvocet, Percocet, or any other –cet is pretty much gonna guarantee you ain’t getting any of it. (how was I to know that that particular hospital was where all the drug addicts go at night?? Lucky me, all I got was some Tylenol. For a broken foot. I would have been better off staying at the pub. And, yes, the injury was drinking related. Did you really have to ask?)



So, here I sit in the week leading up to Christmas, nursing a hangover, watching the snow fall and predicting airport closures and being London bound, all the while coughing and sniffling my way through my third box of Kleenex and second bottle of fake nyquil.



On second thought, time to break out the bourbon laced egg nog! Tis the Season, afterall!