Spring is finally beckoning in all its glory. But that’s exactly the problem: cabaret artist Anne Vogd has hay fever.
And? How do you like spring? Well, I find him stunning . Yes, because basically every spring is a time to cry for me. And just yesterday I swallowed so much pollen while going for a walk that at some point I would have to “blossom” like the handkerchief industry or the strolling industry, for example. Their sales can keep up with every pollen discharge these days. They could only be topped if – in addition to the usual beige transition jackets – particle-proof protective suits were to enrich the range. Preferably with integrated diving goggles and a snorkel that is as long as the Feldberg is high. Because up there the air is pollen-free. There is no such thing as flower sex.
But something is blooming down here. And every year a little earlier – thanks to global warming. “Pollen approaching”, “Danger from the fresh green”, “Longer allergy season” … okay, the headlines are sprouting up too … My husband has now put up a pollen count calendar in the kitchen – you have to know your opponent if you want to beat him. And he’s got a new carpet in the living room… Oops… no, that’s not new at all. The old one is just covered with a whitish layer of pollen like fairy dust…
My car, on the other hand, is yellow – from pollen. Something about yellow… When I stopped briefly in the second row yesterday, I was mistaken for a DHL messenger. Today a pedestrian at a red light threw his mail through the gap in my sunroof. And I was too weak to disagree.
Oh, if only I could switch from lung to gill breathing … With my form of rattling bronchopathy, taking a breath sounds like snorkeling anyway. And the facial recognition from the cell phone no longer works either, since the birch tree blossomed. White bark, red eyes…
Where are the free tissues?
I also wear sunglasses on the subway now. All consequences of the nasal chain reaction. And then that violent sneeze. It happened yesterday on the way to the office. With a cough drop in his mouth. I had to pull up at Carglass first… And dear pedestrians. I also walk often. So please wear a helmet from now on. Getting hit by a lozenge going 200 kilometers per hour is no fun.
Socially, such noises tend to be so semi-received in times of a pandemic. I am looked at like a highly contagious monster. In the checkout line at the supermarket, I fall into serial disfavor – from the goods divider to the end of the queue: I would have to keep shouting: “It’s just hay fever!” to avoid hysteria breaking out, but I’m too weak for that either.
My body’s self-healing powers are simply not sufficient. So I drag myself to the pharmacy. I look like a bullfrog and sound like a broken pond pump sucking air. With the last of my strength I ask for drops and a nasal spray. I no longer want allergy pills. It’s true that my eyes no longer water – but only because they close beforehand. They’re so tired….
The friendly pharmacist hands me the ‘care package’ and gallantly lets a small surprise plonk into the bag. Back outside, I immediately have a violent attack of sneezing. It sounds like an accident involving a Bavarian brass band: the pressure wave strikes passers-by, makes parked cars roll and shatters shop windows. I frantically search the bag for the usual free pack of tissues. I really wouldn’t have been happy about anything at that moment. But my grip went nowhere. Well, not quite: The giveaway this time was just a lot smaller. It was a “nature boy”, a sachet with a grass-seed mixture with the inscription “Let love grow”. Isn’t it crazy what you don’t do to keep your customers loyal to you? n
Anne Vogd is the author of the FR weekend magazine FR7. The title of her book “It’s not always easy for me either” (Ullstein) is to be taken literally.
