Thorn

It is the middle of the hay fever season; at least in terms of grass pollen, or whatever it is I'm allergic to. It always seems to coincide with Wimbledon, raising the possibility that what I'm actually allergic to is televised lawn tennis. As I get older, I wonder whether the ailment will eventually disappear; for example, if my immune system should cotton on to the fact that it sees pretty much the same grassy antigens year after year and, really, they are nothing much to worry about: not a malevolent threat to my general well-being; and certainly less of an encumbrance than the runny nose and itchy eyes. You would have thought that millions of years of evolution would have managed by now to cure me of hay fever; and possibly even made me an inch or two taller; or given me some sort of super power such as X-ray vision, or the ability to reverse into parking spaces. But no. Perhaps I didn't help myself today by taking the bicycle out for a spin in the countryside: you must inhale a vast amount of pollen when cycling; a bit like a blue whale filter-feeding. Though they usually don't manage too well on the bicycle.

There are a couple of roses, a deep crimson in colour, in a vase on my kitchen window sill. (Actually, it's a glass tumbler, as I'm short of vases. But you would never know.) Sadly, not the precious gift of a mysterious stranger, but a few cuttings from a rambling rose in my back garden. It doesn't usually produce many flowers (I have the same problem with my strawberry plants) but this year it seems to have perked up a bit. And I never know whether to leave the blossoms on the plant, to brighten up a dull bit of garden, or to bring them indoors, and brighten up a dull bit of house.