There comes a time in the lives of most of us when we don't really have a cold.
Our nose isn't actually runny.
Our head isn't particularly stuffy.
We don't have a truly scratchy throat, or an honest-to-goodness cough.
We don't feel completely down-and-out miserable but, on the other hand, neither do we feel top-o'the-mornin’-to-you.
We call this not-really-a-cold a
|A furry friend with–take my word for it–some symptoms of a coldish|
A coldish comes with, instead of that honest-to-goodness cough,
A little, sort of naamby-pamby sound somewhere between a throat-clearing and a moderate hack.
If you live in Great Britain you refer to this as an ahem.
Coldishes also are marked by a not-so scratchy throat, but a throat that under no circumstance could be called smooth. It is the 5 o'clock shadow of scratchiness, and when you have a coldish you can call it a stubble throat.
A victim of a coldish can't complain of a stuffy head. But the victim also would ascertain that his head is not airy, freewheeling and clear. It is the kind of head that refuses to relax and let loose.
During a coldish you may legitimately refer to your head as fuddy-duddy.
And of course, the nose during a coldish doesn't actually run. Coldishes never work up enough oomph to do anything so energetic as running.
A coldish nose strolls.
Its contents begin to amble towards the nasal opening, but then get distracted. For an unknown reason–possibly to hum a little tune or gaze at the scenery– this glutinous nostril stuff doesn’t complete the final leg of its journey.
The coldish victim, who dashed for a tissue, realizes the flood of proboscis paraphernalia she was prepared to capture is stalled somewhere up in the nasal cavities, and will appear in the time and manner of its own choosing.
The common coldish.
There is no cure. There is no public sympathy, publicity, Congressional hearing or infomercial for victims of the coldish.
We just sufferish until it has strolled its course.