Get A Grip!

“I have a horrid cold in the head and I do hope it will not turn into La Grippe”. So began an entry in the diary of Baroness von Bülop in her memoir ‘My Royal Past’ published in 1939. This memoir was in fact a spoof written by the photographer Cecil Beaton which I read when I was about thirteen. At that age I was somewhat fascinated by European royalty of the grand age – an age when the Hohenzollerns and Hapsburgs still trundled by royal train around the continent with their great entourages of Archdukes, Grand Dukes, Princes and Counts; taking the waters in Baden-Baden; cruising into Spitzbergen in their graceful yachts. Because of this I was fully taken in by Beaton’s little joke until, about half way through the book, I began to notice that most of the photographs of the Baroness – whether languishing under a parasol on the elegant terrace of some sprawling villa or standing bejewelled, stiff and formal at some glittering court reception – looked suspiciously like Beaton himself (who was credited with ‘editing’ the memoir). Ever since then I’ve wanted to write a spoof autobiography but have yet to find a suitable subject matter. One day, though....

I am reminded of that entry in the Baroness’s diary because I too have a horrid cold in the head. It began yesterday when I detected a dry tingling in my throat and a heaviness in my limbs – sure harbingers of worse to come. I had such an awful day yesterday anyway, I was trying to finalise my year-end accounts which (whereas I am normally so well organized in such matters) had somehow become as tangled as a ball of wool after the proverbial kitten has attacked. Missing invoices, incorrect entries in the ledger, unreadable credit card slips, mystery transactions in the bank statements – it all resulted in a day of hair-tearing and tears. I think this may have something to do with a lost weekend stretching from August to March, but the net result appears to show that my business has made a loss this year. Hmm, I suppose that at least this means I won’t be facing a crippling tax bill next January, but how am I going to feed myself in the meantime?

So - exhausted and very nearly hysterical - I writhed in my misery, all alone. I had designated Monday as a non-alcohol day so I wasn’t even able to drown my sorrows - all I could do was take the powders. Instead, I went to bed early and thrashed around in a pool of feverish sweat all night, hallucinating and squirming with fear. Now I have to change all the bedding, just when I feel especially incapable of doing so. I am so weak this morning that I desire an army of servants to attend to me. A dear friend – someone who cares – has already offered to come round with Chicken Soup and Lucozade and if only I had a chaise-longue upon which I could languish and be pampered, I’d take her up on it. If the Baroness von Bülop’s head cold did develop into La Grippe that day, that’s exactly what she would have done. Me? I'll just have to get a grip and try to ignore La Grippe itself. I was never allowed to be ill as a child, so I'm used to it.