I woke up this morning with one of those throats so sore it's painful to think, let alone speak. Or swallow. Everywhere you go there are people coughing and broadcasting their infective agents in all directions, so I suppose it was inevitable that I would in time succumb.
I have long maintained that when God sent the plagues on Pharaoh and the Egyptians to persuade them to free their Israelite slaves, He kept sore throats up his sleeve as a possible 11th blow, just in case Pharaoh didn't like his firstborn son much anyway. The Israelites would have cheerfully gone about their business, shouting greetings, singing and eating crisps, until the sight of them would have become too much and the Egyptians would have waved them voicelessly into freedom.
Me, I'll sit here with my lozenges. Not to an ancient Egyptian formula, of course. You don't want to know what they prescribed for a sore throat, but I suspect it involved dung.