Almost dyed

Life streams along in a parade of surprises. For the longest time I thought the macho man is not allergic to anything.

Last Saturday, I hand washed my laundry. In one cycle of wash I placed a rather new twin sheet. From this sheet streamed reddish dye. It was made in Pakistan. So I pulled out the sheet, squeeze dried, and hung to dry.

Within an hour my fingertips started tingling painfully. Another two hours later my hands were burning. By the time I went to the hospital. Having experienced caustic burns, I thought this was the reason. The soap and the dye had combined to give me a caustic burn.

I did hunt around for a nurses clinic but was forced to the emergency clinic of a hospital. Apparently none of the "street clinics" provided by the social health agencies work weekends, for as we all know, there is no poverty on the weekends and there is no medical emergencies on the weekends.

Anyhow I was given some prescription for a cream coping with caustic burning. This would take care of the hands but my top lip was swelling mysteriously. And the itching screamed more widely.

This was steroid cream. The very same that Barry Bonds claimed to use. It worked sort of.

As Monday rolled in there was hives all over my body. I just touched an area of skin and it would erupt red boils and itching. Now I couldn't go too far away from my home. I looked like a walking measles factory. Some friends said take some Benadryll.

No it isn't an allergy. And even if it was I had to get permission from the doctor because it would interact with my other prescriptions.

Two days more and two more nights of fierce itching, scratching and I finally saw the doctor who signed for more cream and yes Benadryll.

The illness isn't all that much. The burning hands not that much. What really stinks is that I do have an allergy after all.

Wind Warnings

A few days ago there were wind warnings galore. For brief morning moments, the forecasts hinted at a touch with hurricane strength winds. So it was.

Having just got up and shaken the webs out of the twists of morning’s wakening, I ventured forth and dread the inevitable chorus of whining about the wind chill. It can be the depth of summer and denizens of this city will wind chill the air temperature with their anguished vortices.

Wisdom emerges from the north. An old reply from an old Nortarian (person from Northern Ontario). ‘Get out of the wind.’

The actual sequence of weather events that hit this churlish urban complex ran like a hair salon. There was snow, a thaw and then wind. Or Shampoo, Rinse and Blowed Dry. Toronto looks rather shag.