Cold sores are a modern-day plague — but sufferers like me are supposed to keep a stiff upper lip

It was on a Dalston dancefloor that I contracted herpes. Not — gasp — the genital kind, that would be a feat, but the cold-sore virus Herpes Simplex 1. He was a new boyfriend and through an innocent kiss I contracted something that would haunt me forever. The virus affects an estimated 3.7 billion people under the age of 50 across the globe and in the UK 75 per cent of the population have it. It is the great leveller of illnesses, a low-lying epidemic of the everyday debilitating kind, affecting men and women, rich or poor.

A bout begins as a tingle — or rather a Taser to your face and jaw — you panic, apply cream, avoid chocolate (a supposed trigger) but it’s too late, by day two a bump has formed, that’s fine, easily disguised with cement-grade foundation.

By day four a weepy blister has reared, impossible to conceal, impossible not to notice. Day six: it’s still there, lingering like an unwanted, aggressive party guest who won’t leave. Day eight: it begins to heal and scar and by day 10 all that remains is an emotional hangover as you lament the past two weeks of your life that have been hijacked.

You’ve been feeling paranoid that there is something gross on your face and been unable to kiss your loved ones. Your confidence at work has been hampered. Public speaking has been avoided, if you move your mouth too much then your cold sore might split, and there’s nothing like blood running down your chin to freak out middle management. You’ve avoided sharing meals with friends so you don’t put people off their food.

“Oh no, don’t have a sip of my water / wine / drag of this fag; I’ve got a COLD SORE” — when I’ve got one I might as well wear a “sore on board” badge so keen am I to tackle the elephant in the room head on.

And then come the stares. As they take in my blistered lip, they curl their own with mild disgust and pity. Backing away, recoiling their hands and kisses. And when it comes to holding newborn babies when you have a cold sore? Forget it, I daren’t hold a baby for fear of inadvertently passing on the virus —which in some cases can kill young infants. Some people suffer at least once a month (fear not suitors, I am a sporadic sufferer with episodes occurring no more than twice a year) and yet no one is demanding a cure.

There is no support group that I know of, no lobbying Parliament or debate on the news. We spend millions of pounds collectively every year on plasters to stick over them, creams to soothe the searing pain, Lysine, light-therapy treatments (I’ve tried them all) without a peep of complaint, and the virus costs the NHS millions a year in appointments and prescriptions.

There are more important illnesses to cure at the moment, of course — but isn’t the cold sore a good place to start?

The power of a good hug is a wonder to behold

To Harry’s Bar in Mayfair, for a dinner where I sat next to the fashion designer Erdem, and as he got up to leave at the end of the night we went in for a hug. I have known the designer for years now, we are friends of the fashion kind, and our departing clinch was captured by a photographer who was snapping the event.

Now, dear reader, you know that feeling when you see a photograph of yourself that you really like? You feel chuffed and a bit embarrassed that you could deem yourself to have been captured in your best light, you debate posting it on Instagram, or you might send it to your mum for a little ego boost. This was one of those — a great picture but the thing I loved most about it? The power of the hug. I showed it to my friend, a body-language specialist who said (get ready) it was a “very Michelle Obama” hug.

So let’s break it down: I’d gone over the top of the body, fully embracing Erdem (a sign of true affection, one of power and protection), my hands big, flat and splayed (rather than cupped, which is deemed more formal), my expression one of “neutral love” (who knew that was a thing). I was proud of my hug game in that moment, and when I saw Beyoncé and Meghan embracing in a solid squeeze at the premiere of The Lion King this week, it reminded me of my own commitment to the cuddle.

There is power in a good strong hug, sometimes more than words.

*Four children aged 10 to 14 who packed fishing rods into a truck belonging to one of their parents and drove 620 miles across Australia have been arrested, after a car chase with police and fleeing a petrol station. (My attempt — when I was seven, involving two Wispas and 30p — was not as exciting).

I can see the film now: a cross between Enid Blyton and 2 Fast 2 Furious. These kids were acting out a rite of passage: a desire to run away.