I’ve not been too bad with the old hay fever this year. You know me - usually I go into snotty detail about how the flowers are beating me up and I want to slice my own head off. Well. Thankfully I’ve been spared the worst of it.
I am however, suffering. This morning I woke up with a throat that was drier than a ship’s biscuit. No, wait - a ship’s biscuit that got accidentally left out on the poop deck. In the sun. In the South Pacific. All scratchy and angular and crisp - a medieval hair shirt of a biscuit; a rich tea that would crack if you smiled at it. That’s how it felt. I must have been snoring like a chainsaw in a death metal band.
The last two days have been difficult. I’m bunged up today, hot and stuffy and sniffly. I’m not sneezing but my eyes do feel hot and tired. Hey max (Vaseline) is helping, but I’m not sure whether the fexofenadine isn’t simply sealing up my nose to stop pollen getting in. I feel like a little free-flowing air might help, but I also feel like a kid in a horror movie who’s been told not to open the window. Actually, that would be the title of it probably: Don’t Open The Window.
Why do people watch that nonsense? Sorry if you like it; it’s not for me to call it nonsense. I just like being able to go to sleep without nightmares and turning the lights on.
Anyway, out there beyond the window, the horror is grass. And I don’t want it to come floating in here.
Come to think of it, a ship would be a really good place to be in June. A thousand miles from hay - no breeze could carry it on the wind. Sea air, night and day, pals singing shanties round lanterns and barrels, clear heads, eyes lucid and nostrils to the wind. Just don’t scoff the ship’s biscuit.
No comments:
Post a Comment