....then an itch, and a slightly rheumy eye.
By evening, a sad trail of soggy, crumpled loo roll criss-crossed the house, and a certain 12-year-old was sitting like damp rag in the armchair with tears in his eyes, snot in his nose and self-pity in his heart.
Spring has well and truly sprung here in Greece - and so has hayfever season.
Before the antihystemines kicked in, the letter "n" had disappeared from No.1 (and only) Son's vocabulary, misery was on the menu, mucus dripped like it planned to form a stalactite from his nose, and red-eye was the new look du jour in our house.
And, apparently, it's all my fault (nothing whatsoever to do with rolling around on the grass with his friends or smashing into bushes in bloom on his skateboard. Oh no).
It seems that by puffing and panting, pushing and grunting, and going through the joys of labour to bring him into the world all that time ago, I was magically imbued with super-powers to control the weather, pollen count, Financial Times Index, and the Universe in general. I just choose not to - so I have to bashfully raise my hand and croak "mea culpa" for any resulting suffering.
My sincerest apologisies to you all - unless you're bankers, in which case you owe ME an apology (but that's another story).
Good news? The torrent of snot seems to have dried up now that young'un is on the meds.
Bad news? His father has now started snuffling and sneezing like a good'un. Aside from the entertainment value of his highly theatrical (dare I say camp?) sneezes, this means I'm going to have another professional sufferer on my hands - and he won't see sense and take the tablets. He prefers to wallow, frequently and at full volume.
Even worse news? After nearly two decades of being allergy-free, I can feel the little pollen imps buzzing round me, shoving and pushing in line for their turn to irritate my nasal passages, then stand back to enjoy the spectacle as my carefully applied mascara gets redistributed round my face.
What I want to know is "Who do I get to blame?"
By evening, a sad trail of soggy, crumpled loo roll criss-crossed the house, and a certain 12-year-old was sitting like damp rag in the armchair with tears in his eyes, snot in his nose and self-pity in his heart.
Spring has well and truly sprung here in Greece - and so has hayfever season.
Before the antihystemines kicked in, the letter "n" had disappeared from No.1 (and only) Son's vocabulary, misery was on the menu, mucus dripped like it planned to form a stalactite from his nose, and red-eye was the new look du jour in our house.
And, apparently, it's all my fault (nothing whatsoever to do with rolling around on the grass with his friends or smashing into bushes in bloom on his skateboard. Oh no).
It seems that by puffing and panting, pushing and grunting, and going through the joys of labour to bring him into the world all that time ago, I was magically imbued with super-powers to control the weather, pollen count, Financial Times Index, and the Universe in general. I just choose not to - so I have to bashfully raise my hand and croak "mea culpa" for any resulting suffering.
My sincerest apologisies to you all - unless you're bankers, in which case you owe ME an apology (but that's another story).
Good news? The torrent of snot seems to have dried up now that young'un is on the meds.
Bad news? His father has now started snuffling and sneezing like a good'un. Aside from the entertainment value of his highly theatrical (dare I say camp?) sneezes, this means I'm going to have another professional sufferer on my hands - and he won't see sense and take the tablets. He prefers to wallow, frequently and at full volume.
Even worse news? After nearly two decades of being allergy-free, I can feel the little pollen imps buzzing round me, shoving and pushing in line for their turn to irritate my nasal passages, then stand back to enjoy the spectacle as my carefully applied mascara gets redistributed round my face.
What I want to know is "Who do I get to blame?"
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