Every year I wait for the summer, and every summer this evil, ghastly thing comes along to unseat me.

Alas, it’s that time of year again, and fellow sufferers of this abhorrent stain on the warmer months of the year will know only too well of what I speak.

Hay fever: the way in which the Lord Almighty likes to teach humility to those who pride themselves on having plenty of outdoorsy get-up-and-go.

I’ve fallen victim to the cursed pollen plague for at least the last 20 years, and without fail, every mid-June, it arrives to chastise me.

As a 16-year-old, I remember the universal hell of school exam season being compounded even further by the fact that Mother Nature saw it fit for tears to be streaming from my perpetually itchy eyeballs for a solid fortnight.

The stress of my university finals was also amplified thus, and I can’t tell you how many summer first dates have ended in disaster as a result of almost comedic sneezing fits.

Being allergic to being outside just isn’t nice. And it would be oh so much better if the pox manifested itself in the winter when only the log fires are in bloom.

But........

© Shropshire Star