No, It’s not Covid.

And it’s not the flu. It’s not a cold. I’m not sick.

it’s Spring. Some bastard wheatbelt weed has decide to have sex with the wind and I am in the direct line of its orgasm. The actuality is just as unpleasant as the metaphor.

Drip. Sniff. Honk. Sneeze. Wipe sore eyes. Repeat.

This is not a yearly phenomenon. Most Springs I can get through with a few Claratyne and a box of tissues – but the process of doing so is disturbing to the routine. And you end up tired and spaced at the end of a couple of days. Fortunately the weeds roll over, light a cigarette, and go to sleep after a week or so and the pollen level drops. The garbage man takes away the bin full of tissues, and we get back to normal.

But every now and then something new floats over the city – I remember a Spring in the late 70’s when I, my staff, and nearly all my patients went through two weeks of exceptionally drippy hell – I cancelled several day’s work and we were all grateful for it. I hope this is not another of those exceptional events.

Excuse me – I need to go do something disgusting with a box of tissues…

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