Touching myself

So, I finally throw it in with the big city, pack up the last of it and head back home to the coast, where the corn is as high as an elephant's eye.  Therein lies the problem. The corn, in our absence, has developed mildew. So what do you do? You start pulling it out. And the next morning you wake up looking like Elephant Man's next of kin.

Retrace steps ~ pulling out corn, fondling marigolds, packing lots of cardboard boxes, hives, pollen. WTF is going on?

After three days of the Itchy & Scratchy Show, I finally succumb to the doctor's surgery. (Or else I would have torn my face off).

And given it's localised to where I have put my hands on my face, the verdict is pollen allergy. Dammit. This happened once before with the old Robyn Gordon Grevillea, a lovely plant that a lot of people have a problem with (Please excuse dangling participle).

So, a bucket of cream, some anti-histamines later, and I can continue to unpack boxes whilst slurping on a shiraz. Because I have to tell you, the idea of becoming allergic to red wine was almost too much to contemplate.

I've used this photo of Chrissy Amphlett, because when the doctor (who I might say, was a cross between Senator Penny Wong and Lee Lin Chin, two women worth being crossed with) announced it was only where I'd touched myself, I nearly wet myself.