One day suffocatingly white hot,

the next,

a stalactite of ice forming out of your nostril.

I got over the rat shit head cold, coughing my guts out all the way.
More on the illness front. Have a decent dose of Iritis at the moment. Every time I tun my eye in a certain position or focus on close objects a dull throb of pain travels deep into my eye socket. 90 to 100 years ago there was no cure for Iritis. The writer James Joyce suffered from it and as a result nearly lost his sight. Being a very persistent type, he sought out a doctor specializing in inflammatory diseases. Since steroids and cortisone had not been discovered yet, certain medical practitioners of the time would inject the patient with milk making one quite ill and producing a fever. This fever in turn produced the body's natural cortisone to combat the inflammatory cells in the iris of the eye. Most of the time the primitive method didn't work, though in Joyce's case did. If the the condition is left un-treated, the pressure in the eye is raised making the sufferer feel as if it will explode. The fluid pushes the iris into the lens freezing the pupil in one position, finally the optic nerve is destroyed and the damaged eye shuts down. Permanently.
All in a matter of 2 months.

I have suffered on and off with this for around 22 years. I get it around twice a year, always at the start of winter, after I have been blasted in the face with a southerly.

I put drops in every hour for one week, then every 2 hours for the following week, 4 times a day the next 2 weeks after that. When it's bad, (which is rare these days) the pupil has to be dilated. If it's real bad. Then the good Dr Reich whacks a whopping big needle in. THE FINAL SOLUTION.
 

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The Queens birthday weekend, had me inside most of the time. The weather was hardly inspirational for going for jaunty walks in Armadale. Though I went for a quick one down to the shop, for some essentials and a coffee or six. As I was returning, I noticed an erratically moving male figure rushing up my street with a desperate look on his face. I took no more notice and headed round the back of  T H E  H O V E L as I was just turning to close the gate behind me, I had the shit scared out of me as a crazed face was pressed against the paling of the gate. About 5'11 thickly set, with bloody grazes across one side of his face and neck. Smelling slightly of booze he said,

"Maaate, canya' help meeout mate, please mate can ya' . I don't drink or smoke or nuffin mate. I wanna visit me mum in Frankston"

I was so freaked by the suddenness of this guy in my face, I could only say, 

"err sorry mate, no I can't."

Only thinking straight away where the money was going to go. But realizing that he had followed closely behind me on to the property without me hearing him, also had me thinking that maybe, I was about to be mugged, if I didn't bolt the gate straight away. Which I did. He then turned around robotically like I was a very faint distant memory and went off in his desperate way to hound down anyone else who crossed his path.

I had a feeling of slight guilt in the way I passed him off like all the other street beggars I come across on the Melbourne City streets. It is rare to come across that situation in the precinct where I live. Should I have given him money ?
I still don't know.
 

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Last night I enrolled for the Certificate in Software Development. All done with speed and NO interview. Pick the modules. Pick the day, pick the time, queue for a fucking hour to pay the bastard fees and i'm outta there. 

Only if the daily running of my life was as simple.