One day I was sitting at my desk at News Letter headquarters, when I realised I was coming down with the cold. So far, so commonplace. It was January; who doesn’t have to reach for the Kleenex in this desperate and bluest of months? I felt feverish, shivery. I sneezed and felt a cough brewing. I packed up at the end of the day, feeling utterly horrible, self-pityingly wretched. But I had no doubt the adequate dose of Co-codamol, a bag of oranges and some Lucozade would sort me out, plus an early night under a heavy duvet curled up in the foetal position beside my beloved bedside radiator.