Don’t Get Your Feet Wet

Pansy for Remembering

It probably seems a little strange that advice when you consider that I, and this blog, are all for psychological advancement.  Life can be richer for either when to dip one’s toe into new waters or to take an entire plunge into them.  It seems that our feet are kept busy metaphorically throughout life’s journey, a path that we walk leaving footprints for future generations to trace and there’s quite a lot of water too.  Water is a powerful metaphor, as powerful as real life water can be, etching a channel through solid rock at times.  Water can be destructive however and I don’t think any of us would want our psychological, metaphorical water to be like of a torrent after heavy rain and a serious snow melt.  Yet we relish the calm of pools on summer days and enjoy the babbling of a brook.  I know I babble.

It’s funny how in this modern germ-paranoid world we are so health conscious, albeit often in a faddish way, but yet we forget and neglect the basic principles of looking after ourselves.  Maybe we put too much faith in wonder pills rather than letting the healing and recovery process take its own time, we live in a world of instant gratification after all, leading far too busy and complex lives to allow ourselves the luxury of time to, first, be ill then second, to recover from it properly.

In a not so distant past, ‘convalescence’ was a word that you heard often.  I can’t remember the last time I met it in the modern world, have I at all?  Possibly not.  Illness came in two stages.  There was the illness and then the recovery.  You took the necessary time that your body required to recover.  You didn’t rush it.  You built your strength.  You ate good food.  You found clean air.  (Although those two were probably the preserve of the wealthy).

I don’t recommend beef tea, not that I’ve ever tried it, but I do know someone who drinks a well-known brand of gravy powder.  (It’s not my husband, he doesn’t know that it’s possible to drink the stuff by the mugful and I’m not telling him either).  But do we really look after ourselves anymore?

I’m usually well aware of what can trigger ill health; for example I use copious amounts of hand gel during a cold or cough, I keep my feet, hands and head warm as a matter of course, I try to eat a balanced diet.   But I slipped up last week.

I had washing out on the line.  (I once again, fortunately, have the strength to hang it up, and all in one go too).  It decided to chuck it.  Now, usually, we don’t have to rush the washing rescue too much because our balcony is roofed.  (Yes, I do believe that rain water contaminates the washing.  So does night air.  No, I’m not weird or a freak.  Just idiosyncratic).  This time, the rain was coming in.  Hard.  It was proper owie rain.  It hurt.  And I was having to dash around trying to liberate washing from pegs, never mind pegs from lines.  Fast.  Which didn’t help  my coordination.  I was dressed suitably for being inside.  I was soaked.

Now what should one do when one is soaked to the skin?

That’s right.  Not sit around in the wet clothes and wait for them to dry.

Guess what I did?

Late that evening I had a twingy throat.  This a warning sign.  It’s not a good warning sign.  I took to salt water, generously salty and vile.  Then I turned to mouthwash, there’s a medicated one on the side at the moment.  (I want another glass bottle).  But it didn’t go away.  And as I was sat there, probably knitting, I realised what the matter was.

I had been very stupid.

So I poured myself some vodka in the hope that would kill anything.

(I’ve been gifted a bottle of that grass vodka but it’s still a little coarse these days.  I’ve decided that I prefer rum, which of course, I don’t have any of).


The tri-fold ‘cure’ was repeated a couple of times over the next few days but it was too late.  Something like bolting doors after horses flee or something.

It became a nasty head cold.

I didn’t quarantine myself because I knew I hadn’t got it from contagion but from folly.  (And that’s another old-fashioned procedure which you don’t hear much of anymore, unfortunately).  I called it a ‘chill’, another old-fashioned name, which husband doesn’t quite appreciate.  A cold is a cold to him.  But I am pedantic.

I felt quite wretched at times.  If not, cross at my stupidity.

I am now recovering but it has, of course, gone to my chest.  Everything goes to my chest.  So I’ve consumed half a bottle of cough medicine in the last few days in the hopes of some respite.

Never get your feet wet.  A golden rule of healthcare.

Or any of the rest of you.

Always change out of wet clothes.

Otherwise you will end up with a ‘chill’.

You can catch your death of cold too, you know.

10 thoughts on “Don’t Get Your Feet Wet

Add yours

  1. Hello, you used to write wonderful, but the last few posts have been kinda boring… I miss your super writings. Past several posts are just a little bit out of track! come on!

  2. We have lovely soft water here in Manchester, though it can come down hard. If it rains on my washing, it is nice and soft and doesn’t need ironing. :)

    My Mum liked to drink a cup of Bovril or a beef Oxo cube in hot water. She swore by it.

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