I've already had a cacophony of sneezes and snots this year. What the hell? How does that entitle me to receive more? Fury! So in the spirit of my current misery I recall a fonder(?) time: A time where I also had debilitating allergies. Picture it: London 2005. The season was Spring, and the theme was crankiness. Please enjoy the following excerpt from one of my highly popular publications, distributed at the time.
It’s come to my attention that there must be a cache of mail for me somewhere in the incompetent depths of the Royal Mail Headquarters. Seriously, there’s a room full to the brim with letters from friends and family addressed to Zenija Esmits Great Guildford St London SE1 0ES. And all the Royal Mail employees (read: thieving bastards) frolic in it like it’s a ball-room at chuck-e-cheese.
I was talking to Clare this afternoon and conversation led to the postal service, and figured that she has sent waaaaaay more than the single postcard I’ve received from her. Now, I’m thrilled with the postcard, but I’m pretty T’oed that there are bits of mail not reaching me. I love mail. So I intend to launch a campaign against the Fucking Royal Mail (sorry, but I’m seriously pissed off) In fact, I think they should think about attaching that prefix to their title. It would help account for their continued ineptitude.
Not only does the Royal Mail seriously blow, but the post office seriously blows as well. The dregs of society frequent the place. I wonder sometimes if the wealthy and the: not strung out on smack ever send letters? Because looking at the ‘clientele’ in these places makes me think that I’m the only sober person who mails stuff. The public businesses such as banks, post and government offices are the filthiest smears on society that I’ve ever had the displeasure to visit. They cater to the emotionally stunted that work there and the equally emotionally stunted that require their services. I try not to touch the surfaces. Everything is encased in contaminated plexi and the tellers whether they be post or financial are all assholes. I do not generalize.
And while we’re lingering on the subject of things that tick me off, because god knows, the list is never-ending, here’s another one to add to the archive. It all happened one sunny day in May.
I don’t know what they are, and frankly I don’t care. There’s probably a botanical name for them. I highly doubt however that it’s as colorful as the one I’ve christened them with. Blinding Maple Shards. They’re the pesky little razor sharp pokey bits that form innocent looking puffballs that dangle off the Maple branches. Innocent that is, until the wind picks up and they explode into a cloud of airborne metal filings. It should be mandatory to harvest these things off the damn trees come late April. Or alternatively, chop the trees lining The Embankment down.
It was the most painful walk home EVER! Every nanosecond another fly-away razor sharp piece of fluff attacked my eyes mercilessly. I am soooo very bloodshot right now and my eyes sting like I rubbed them with fibreglass.
Just did some research… turns out what I thought was a particularly lethal maple is actually, the ‘London Plane’ tree. Here’s what the botanists have to say about it. The crap that almost killed me is from the ‘flowers’ (deceptively innocent term) .The ‘flowers’ are dense spherical heads comprised of millions of prickles. They are wind pollinated. No shit. Now I can look forward to London Plane trees growing out of my eyes.
Tune in again for the continuation of Allergy Attack of 2005.