Curing hayfever. Or not.

I thought I had escaped the wrath of hayfever this year. You hear about and read about the people who once had this debilitating, life-ruining condition (it’s worse than AIDS) who suddenly, one summer, realise it’s all but left them. They can return to normality; to lead a life relatively discomfort-free, safe in the knowledge that THE WORLD no longer wants to kill them.

I thought I might have entered these distinguished ranks, thanks to the fact I really haven’t been suffering that much this year.

Turns out that likely isn’t the case, though. No, it’s more likely just that the weather has been so bloody awful this summer that it’s been impossible for hayfever to get any real foothold on my well-being.

I allowed myself to be fooled momentarily. I didn’t drop my guard – I’m far too suspicious a person to do that, though I probably wouldn’t call myself careful. All the same, I was lured into believing that maybe, just maybe, I would no longer be left half-dead as a result of pollen fucking my shit up.

Then the sun came about for about two hours and my eyes itched so badly I wanted to tear them out, tape them to a Frisbee and fling them over a rainbow (with apologies to Black Books).

Sod you in your stupid fat face, hayfever.

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