Just Call Me Igor

Back by popular demand:

 

this year’s pumpkin effort. I think last year’s was scarier, so my  psyche is evidently feeling more cheerful this time around.

Harry’s fledgling attempts at demanding money-sweets-with-menaces begin tonight. It should really be me collecting the goodies, as I shall be lurching around all 3 planned locations behind him like a fully paid-up member of the undead.

After years of post-partum lumbar trouble, I have recently enjoyed some 5 or 6 months of pain-free sleep. Until I started lugging heavy boxes of Christmas cards about last month, that is; I am now rather worse than I was before and turning over in bed (which must be done every 30 minutes if I am not to set solid) is a very gruntsome affair indeed.

Friday evening, I became aware that my knee, which gave me a good deal of popping-out-of-socket type-bother as a teenager, was Not Right. It is not dislocated, but it is trying to become so, and although I can walk on it, I can’t fully extend or flex it. There’s no pain but the sensation is making me horribly squeamish, and I know that when I inevitably make an unthinking twisting movement and it does finally pop out properly – then it will hurt. Ho, yus, so it will.

Later Friday evening, I dragged my poorly leg upstairs to bed, yawning and rubbing my eyes. My right eye immediately proceeded to take violently against said rubbing – probably because I had eaten Indian finger food an hour or so earlier – and within an hour, my eyeball was making a entirely creditable effort at resembling a football in size. At 2am, I poked John awake to show him my face ‘Wsstttftl? Oh. Urrggh!’ as my eye had actually swollen shut, which was an unpleasant first for me.

Come Saturday morning, my eyeball (I’m sorry if you’re eating, but it’s Hallowe’en, people! If there’s a time to talk about eyeballs, this is it!) had a clear bulging bubble on it, additionally featuring a fascinating crease line across it, where my lower lid had rested. My swollen face had decreased in size a good deal, but John recoiled from the sight of my eyeball with a horrified ‘EErrreeuuhHGgggh!’ noise.

I was mildly disconcerted, as my understanding of eyeballs is limited almost entirely to the fact that they should be vaguely spherical, which mine currently wasn’t, by a long chalk. However, we have kind neighbours who are, I’m afraid, well-used to dishing out free medical advice to various presenting Hairy Farmers at weekends (baby-aged Harry, in particular, never used to be ill at any other time, and was customarily completely cured of his malaise by the short walk from one house to the other). Was I an allergic type? I was asked.

Not really! I said. Although… I suppose cats do make me pretty much unable to breathe after a while. And dog-lick brings me up horrendously. And I can’t touch a horse with my inner arm if I want to continue liking my inner arm. And I can’t touch certain vegetable saps if I want to retain the skin on my fingers. And the smell of red onion, and some types of garlic, gives me a god-awful headache, and – on one memorable occasion – hallucinations. And there was that one time, at band camp, when I ate a curry which seemed to trigger all-over body itching of such an acutely torturous nature that I eventually had to jump into a bath of cold water at 2am. (John, it transpired yesterday, remembers the Cold-Bath-Of-2002-Incident clearly, because I apparently kept him awake half the night, crying. I can completely see how it sucks to be him, sometimes.)

Eyeball was promptly attributed to allergic reaction, and, true to form, by the time I walked home, was feeling a lot better, although it’s still a mildly unsettling shade of very off-white, and complements my stiff back and lurching gait nicely.

If anyone needs any assistance with their pet creation this evening, I can probably help install your lightning rods and adopt a lisp.

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