Atchoo

I have a cold. I can see you nodding your head sagaciously, saying: "Oh, that's the one that's going around. The Zeitghost has that cold that I had a few weeks back." Yes I'm aware you think I have that cold. I have been told this innumerable times by lots of people. They all think I have their cold, and it's a fallacy. The truth is I wouldn't be caught dead with one of your colds. It's not becoming of me. I have a designer cold.

My cold is a trendoid, hipster, sexy kind of cold. I actually picked it up in London at the weekend. Shoreditch to be precise, that hotbed of wonky haircuts, skinny jeans, and punchable faces. I was sitting outside this superubercool scenster hangout – a quirky little Malaysian piebald donkey ball shavers practice (can't tell you the full address because you'll cramp the place's style) – and I was only wearing a string vest and some luminous green corduroy hot pants. I was cool. I was cold too, but being cool was the priority.

So that's how I got my cold. I think I picked it up off this member of a radically rad art collective, while we were dicussing the possibility of locating a 'space'. Everything is about space in London you see. "Do you have a space?" "What's your space like?" "Is there room in your space for two?" etc. I told him I had a space back home, and there was enough room to kick ball. He had the sniffles and looked pensively at Banksy stencil that turned out to be a Caution: Hipsterai Loafing About sign.

As you can see the from it's origins, this cold is pretty chic. I was told it's part of a nouvelle vague of colds, a high concept piece of design, exclusive, refined, urbane. Just like it's host. None of this Lemsip quaffing, Halls Soother sucking, Vicks inhaling consumerist crap. The cold can not be tamed. It's a unique and vibrant piece of biological engineering. I am privileged.

If you think about it, think cold is like a bit of haute couture fashion. It's a once-off, it fits me perfectly and I would be seen dead outside in it. Did I mention I got it in London, one of the planet's real fashion capitals? And this cold picked me out. I wasn't looking for a cold. It decided that I was the sophisticated enough to be the carrier. Pretty neat for me. Needless to say, people I travelled with didn't get this cold.

They, like you, probably got there cold's off some germ covered toilet chain in Tescos, or by being sneezed on by an incontinent old woman in the queue for Holy Communion. As good a place as any, but not really my scene any more. Next season I plan to make a trip to New York maybe see what sort of cold I can pick up there. Maybe I'll even get the flu in Paris. Imagine hypothermia in Milan this spring! The expense is extravagant and vulgar I know but it's worth it.

If I have one reservation about this haute-coldture it has to be the snot. I have a constant tsunami of snot streaming down my face, and chic as this London town snot is, it can be awkward to manage. Maybe next season I'll get a pret-a-porter version of this cold, one that I can fling on, have for any occasion, and is less high maintenance.

This cold is already becoming a classic, must have accessory, especially now that it's Kate Moss endorsed. Apparently she is appearing on the front of next months Vogue with a runny nose, pink eye and fist of soggy, mangled Kleenex. My cold will probably be gone by then, and all the johnny-come-latelys will be running about balls naked desperate to catch a chill. Pathetic really but that's what it's like being a slave to fashion.

The Zeitghost