The Urban Elf

Oh, Allergy. Oh, wheezing, brain fogging, eye burning allergy. It appears that perhaps my systematic sacrificing of television “weather-casters” to the sun god has begun to pay off. But gods being fickle egomaniacs the glorious orb has shown up late, only sporadically engaged with the guests and activities, and then meandered off without so much as a “fare thee well”. Probably off to hobnob with vacuous paparazzi magnets at some deplorable Wolfgang Puck establishment. But, returning to my point, the sun has indeed been seen. After our interminable Seattle-like climax of a cold and sodden stretch of six rain ruined weekends in a row the sun is at last playing a cheeky game of peek-a-boo. Of course this means that when the shining one does appear in the sky every flower in creation that has been getting lush and sturdy and fat as if readying for its adolescent growth spurt joins its fellows in popping off like flashbulbs in the presence of Princess Di. So now here I sit, peering out the window at the sun’s protracted fan-dance with every gland swollen, every joint aching, a face that looks and feels as if I’ve been bobbing for poison ivy and the distinct impression that while sleeping someone funneled a wheelbarrow load of sand through my nose and into my cranium. No doubt as soon as I can move and the metric mule-load of antihistamines I’ve swallowed remits me to gravity’s grasp, I will have to take action. Perhaps I should try sacrificing tanning booth operators…