Thanks to the British climate we are experiencing a mini heatwave, and this means it is warmer here than Marrakech. It is around this time that I see pictures of all the scenic walks that can be taken, and adverts full of families riding bikes and walking dogs. It looks so much fun to be strolling around the fields and forests of England.
Then the curse of the summertime, the terrible affliction that stops me enjoying beer gardens and barbecues. The lamest illness in the world.
Effectively this means I am bought low by flowers, the tiny pretty little things that are easily stomped underfoot. I am a Goliath bought down by grass, or even worse I’m like all those people in that M Knight Shamalamadingdong movie. Not the good dead people one, but the one where the trees did it.
This means during the summer I have two options, I can either claw out my eyes as though I had just seen medusa coming towards me or hermit myself inside the house. So I become like Bilbo expecting the Sacksville-Baggins’ and close all the windows and doors.
Thereby turning my home into a greenhouse. It is the realisation of jumping from the frying pan into a fire, at least in a thermostatic way. Pleas from people to just open a little window is met with a scream of “No, you’ll kill me”
That may be a tad dramatic, but as an asthmatic having hayfever is just a way to set off an attack. It’s as though plants are trying to plan the perfect murder.
“It wasn’t us guv’nor, honest, so there may be a little pollen round his nostrils but he died from being strangled by his airwaves. We only have leaves how could we do that?”
I don’t even understand why vegetation has a vendetta against me. If I was a rampant fruit eater then I could understand, but I am a friend of the plant world. I try to only eat meat (and therefore help save the grass) but you don’t see me getting an allergy to bacon.