Oh damn, still in this dream.

'Kay....

Thursday was interesting. Due to my asthma and hayfever, I'd never been to Chelsea Flower Show. My Old Man had attended without fail when alive, so I half expected to meet his shade, Hamlet's father like, somewhere in the undergrowth.

Fra and Cressy were in good form. We wandered about the show for some three or four hours, sipping champagne or Pimm's, and generally bantering on about this and that, while oohing and aahing at the plants, furniture, and statuary on show. F & C left to relieve the nanny at about 6ish, so SWMBO and I killed time until cocktails at Linley's. Some of the furniture there is pretty astonishing. I'm rather fond of the humidors myself. As and when we move, I'll consider one for the library. Linley's work is both idiosyncratic and excellent; though hugely expensive.

After cocktails, Madame and colleagues, with me in tow, ended up at the Ebury, where we ate and drank yet more, whilst exchanging our favourite Princess Margaret stories. By now, despite bottles of alcohol (or maybe because of) I was starting to wheeze somewhat.

Friday, SWMBO left early in the morn to meet her sister-in-law, in darkest Surrey, for lunch and shopping. By the time I caught up with them, my hayfever had hit me thwack across the side of my head, and, to put it bluntly, I was a seething mass of snot and mucus, with severe projectile potential.

Given that, it may come as no surprise that sleep evaded me on Friday night, especially when one takes into account the degree of concentration I needed to monitor my breathing. Such bliss.

So I pretty well lost all of Saturday to sleep-drunkeness coupled with anti-histamine stupidity. As an aside, anti-histamines, for me, divide into two broad groups: the ones that send me to sleep, and the ones that give me migraines. As is, I have been prescribed one that only makes me slightly sleepy, and only with small headaches: which could be considered the smallest negative result in an always-less-than-zero-sum game.

I've been playing catch-up for the rest of the weekend.

I may just avoid Chelsea next year. For the past twenty years or so, I've spent June, and a few days either side, sequestered in a darkened room, with a guitar, my books, and a big bag of weed, with which I would self-medicate. Now I am a married man this is not possible, and flaming June seems to have taken on a nightmare quality wherein I have nested dreams of my lungs being on fire. Today though they merely smoulder.

May your breath come easy to you.
Do good things and go well.