Oh Hayfever, How Have I Missed Thee?

The darkness recedes, the days grow less dim. Buds push out from the tips of branches, bulbs split underground. Chandeliers of magnolia candles glow out from the gloom. Blossoms burst forth in a shower of froth against the blue sky.

Spring is here! Vital, glorious, hopeful!

At least it is, for two days, and then the birch pollen wakes up and my hayfever begins. Flowers are glimpsed through tears of irritation, blooms barely sniffed. Last night’s run through Regent’s Park in 20 degree heat (yes, heat, this is England) was fabulous, but for the drifting waves of pollen.

Ah, but the bliss of this morning’s run through the cement garden of Archway – the fake flowers in the hanging baskets of my local pub, the tree-less streets and bricked over gardens, the clouds of fumes from passing cars. A treat for the eyes and nose. A sight, indeed, for sore eyes.