…conjunctivitis

I hope you have your screen-wipes handy:  simply reading this is hazardous to your health.  You can catch this irritating little infection just by hearing about it.  On Friday I visited Basket and family for a cup of tea and a catch up, and came out with acute bacterial conjunctivitis.  Not that we knew it at the time, because conjunctivitis is a crafty little bugger, but it was hitching a lift to Hampshire on my peepers.  (I should point out that it’s no one’s fault and Basket keeps a very tidy home; these things just happen.  And poor baby Amelie: if it’s annoying for me it would have to be downright agony for a nine-month old.)

So, with my invisible passenger I made my way to Southampton and spent the night in fine company drinking fine wines and having a dance-off with Clancy after Lisa and I whipped him and Al at pool (and no arguments please – it was unfortunate that Lisa potted the white and we still claim the moral victory).  There is every chance that I managed to pass on my unwelcome guest to all and sundry throughout the night but them’s the breaks.

Saturday – the day of the reunion – and Barry (if it’s going to live on you, you should really be on first name terms) was only just introducing himself.  I thought I might have poked myself in the eye whilst throwing some award-winning shapes on the disco stage and thought no more of it.  Clancy and I sat around under our duvets for five hours (Gareth – avert your eyes: it was a chronic waste of a day) watching Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (promising) and The Bionic Woman (dross), whilst Barry settled in under my eyelid.

The reunion came and went, but no gunge or itching indicated anything was amiss.  Another fantastic opportunity to spread himself around, no doubt; Barry must have had a field day.  The reunion was a bit of a wash out numbers-wise so his choices might have been fewer than anticipated, but all that hugging and hand-shaking!  What a night!  While I was wondering whether it really felt like a reunion at all: very few people I knew were there, the Student Union I knew is gone and a swanky new building has replaced it, the drinks were more watered down than I remembered and the whole thing ended at midnight; Barry was socialising with all and sundry, loitering on a pint glass or making a run for it when an air kiss got close enough to actually brush cheeks (it was a Drama reunion, remember – no contact baisers only).

Sunday: Barry makes himself known.  When I woke up my left eye was swollen, itchy, gunky and sore.  Liccy was alarmed: she had spent all night in the twin room with an ugly  contagion and might herself now be a victim.  She approached with her umbrella (giraffe print with a pink handle; fabulous) to shield her from the spray every time I blinked and confirmed the worst.  Of course, only being in my left eye it could have been worse, but the first thing you want to do is touch the other eye.  Oh, the temptation!  So far, touch wood, I am in the clear but having written this no doubt Barry will knock through to make full use of the space and tomorrow I shall be sealed up completely.

I spoke to my mother about it when she rang (I went over for dinner on the way home) and after the panicked “have you touched the other eye?  Well don’t” was out of the way the stock treatment for ailments was rolled out: wash it out with warm salty water.  Um, are you on smack, mother?  I am not putting hot brine into my eyes, especially when  it’s red, weeping and scratching when I blink.  My mother’s answer to everything: rinse it out with salty water.  Cuts and grazes: fine.  Septic piercing? Understandable.  Mouth ulcers?  Now you’re getting crazy.

So, as I write, yellowy green goo is building up in my lacrimal system and requires repetitive and tender cleaning every half hour or so, which is fun.  I’m in two minds about taking Barry to work tomorrow: he is a gregarious fellow but I’m not sure that anyone would extend their hospitality if they had the choice.  And he’s type to hang around on your keyboard or a door handle and force himself upon you when your guard is down.  But I can’t sit around at home alone either: Barry’s not one for chatting.

Bet your eyes are itching now.

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