EDitorial ± 19-Jun-2012


I'll remember that particular Tuesday as the day my head exploded. Quite literally. Every sneeze felt like the Swan Vestas rep, tired from flogging his wares in the firework factory, had nipped into the gents for a cheeky ciggy. B to the A to the N to the G. Burned down to the ground, it was, what with all those Roman candles and rockets. Now the locals miss the distinctive smell of that ol' factory.

Returning from a bike week lunchtime sojourn to the Doubledeck Diner, we'd wheeled our wheels over the A14 and found ourselves on a Ballardian bridleway becoming overgrown. Never fear, we saddled up and skedaddled along through the undergrowth. Looking back, I can almost see the the clouds of nettle pollen. Towards the end of the ride, I was reaching for my standard issue man tissue, i.e. a single piece of kitchen towel.

Back in the air con of the office, it started with an a-choo. And another. Then a third. Again, again, screamed the Teletubbies of the tracheal muscles. Hurry the histamine! Cleanse the cavities! Purge the particles! Each expulsion takes it out of you: not only nasal irritants but an iota of energy. You sneeze, your head rocks back, you lose twenty Mucous Warfare points. Sapped, you are.

The eyes have it. Bad, that is. They itch. You rub them. They water. You dry them. They itch. Et cetera.

Seemed to me like the whole Piriton pantomime carried on for a good half hour, maybe longer. Even when it stopped, it hadn't really. Worst it's been in blimmin' years. Bless me.