Hay Fever Quotes

Tell me of what plant-birthday a man takes notice, and I shall tell you a good deal about his vocation, his hobbies, his hay fever, and the general level of his ecological education.

You kissed me because you were awfully nice and I was awfully nice and we both liked kissing very much. It was inevitable.

People have died from hiccups, you know.

People with ADD are forever told that they are “too sensitive” or that they should stop being “so touchy.” One might as well advise a child with hay fever to stop being “so allergic.

Couldn't you see that all my flippancy was only a mask, hiding my real emotions--crushing them down desperately!

I also turn to homeopathic remedies for the treatment of indigestion, travel sickness, insomnia and hay fever just to name a few. Homeopathy offers a safe, natural alternative that causes no side effects or drug interactions.

So I told [the doctor] about my hay fever, which used to rage just in summertime but now simmers the year round, and he listened listlessly as though it were a cock and bull story; and we sat there for a few minutes and neither of us was interested in the other's nose, but after a while he poked a little swab up mine and made a smear on a glass slide and his assistant put it under the microscope and found two cells which delighted him and electrified the whole office, the cells being characteristic of a highly allergic system. The doctor's manner changed instantly and he was full of the enthusiasm of discovery and was as proud of the two little cells as though they were his own.

I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch – hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into – some fearful, devastating scourge, I know – and, before I had glanced half down the list of “premonitory symptoms,” it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it. I sat for awhile, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever – read the symptoms – discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it – wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus’s Dance – found, as I expected, that I had that too, – began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically – read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright’s disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid’s knee. ... I had walked into that reading-room a happy, healthy man. I crawled out a decrepit wreck. I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I’m ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. “What a doctor wants,” I said, “is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each.” So I went straight up and saw him, and he said: “Well, what’s the matter with you?” I said: “I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is NOT the matter with me. I have not got housemaid’s knee. Why I have not got housemaid’s knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I HAVE got.” And I told him how I came to discover it all. Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn’t expecting it – a cowardly thing to do, I call it – and immediately afterwards butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out. I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist’s, and handed it in. The man read it, and then handed it back. He said he didn’t keep it. I said: “You are a chemist?” He said: “I am a chemist. If I was a co-operative stores and family hotel combined, I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me.” I read the prescription. It ran: “1 lb. beefsteak, with 1 pt. bitter beer every 6 hours. 1 ten-mile walk every morning. 1 bed at 11 sharp every night. And don’t stuff up your head with things you don’t understand.” I followed the directions, with the happy result – speaking for myself – that my life was preserved, and is still going on.

It wasn't a feeling that had a source, except in the way the source of hay fever is flowers.

Strange as it may seem, people with an unconscious psychological need for symptoms tend to develop a disorder that is well known, like back pain, hay fever, or eczema.

Kagan has given us painstakingly documented evidence that high reactivity is one biological basis of introversion but his findings are powerful in part because they confirm what we’ve sensed all along. Some of Kagan’s studies even venture into the realm of cultural myth. For example, he believes, based on his data, that high reactivity is associated with physical traits such as blue eyes, allergies, and hay fever, and that high-reactive men are more likely than others to have a thin body and narrow face.

In Rome, people with fine sympathetic natures stand up and weep in front of the celebrated 'Beatrice Cenci the Day before her Execution.' It shows what a label can do. If they did not know the picture, they would inspect it unmoved, and say, 'Young girl with hay fever; young girl with her head in a bag.

When scientists had discovered, at the turn of the century, that radium could destroy human tissue, it was quickly put to use to battle cancerous tumors, with remarkable results. Consequently—as a life-saving and thus, it was assumed, health-giving element—other uses had sprung up around it. All of Katherine’s life, radium had been a magnificent cure-all, treating not just cancer, but hay fever, gout, constipation…anything you could think of. Pharmacists sold radioactive dressings and pills; there were also radium clinics and spas for those who could afford them.

Stop scratching,' Rhys said without looking at him as they strode through a blooming apple orchard. No wings to be seen today. Cassian lowered his hands from his chest. 'I can't help it if this place makes my skin crawl.' Rhys snorted, gesturing to one of the blooming trees above them, petals falling thick as snow. 'The feared general, felled by seasonal allergies. Cassian gave an unnecessarily loud sniffle, earning a full chuckle from Rhys.

She knew heartbreak. She also understood the pretzels one folds oneself into for love. She had followed one soulful man down perilous class-IV rapids. Still, he cheated on her. She moved into another boyfriend’s cabin without running water, where her hay fever was so bad she sneezed her way through sex. But by the end of it all, she knew what she wanted and who she was.

La distancia de rescate está ahora tan tensa que no creo que pueda separarme más de unos pocos metros de mi hija. La casa, los alrededores, todo el pueblo me parece un lugar inseguro y no hay ninguna razón para correr riesgos

astonishment, it made the girls themselves gleam. Katherine, like many before her, was entranced by it. It wasn’t just the glow—it was radium’s all-powerful reputation. Almost from the start, the new element had been championed as “the greatest find of history.”7 When scientists had discovered, at the turn of the century, that radium could destroy human tissue, it was quickly put to use to battle cancerous tumors, with remarkable results. Consequently—as a life-saving and thus, it was assumed, health-giving element—other uses had sprung up around it. All of Katherine’s life, radium had been a magnificent cure-all, treating not just cancer, but hay fever, gout, constipation…anything you could think of. Pharmacists sold radioactive dressings and pills; there were also radium clinics and spas for those who could afford them. People hailed its coming as predicted in the Bible: “The sun of righteousness [shall] arise with healing in his wings, and ye shall go forth and gambol as calves of the stall.”8

I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch – hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into – some fearful, devastating scourge, I know – and, before I had glanced half down the list of “premonitory symptoms,” it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it. I sat for awhile, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever – read the symptoms – discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it – wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus’s Dance – found, as I expected, that I had that too, – began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically – read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright’s disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid’s knee.

Stress is like an allergic person's reaction to the environment. If you have hay fever, you will probably be able to tolerate some allergens. When you really have trouble is when you are exposed to several allergens over too short a period of time. This is a classic case of "the straw that broke the camel's back". Given a number of stressors in a short time, just about any dog may behave aggressively.

Nada peor que buscar el sentido o creer que lo hay. O sí lo habría, aún peor: creer que el sentido de algo, aunque sea del detalle más nimio, dependerá de nosotros o de nuestras acciones, de nuestro propósito o nuestra función, creer que hay voluntad, que hay destino, e incluso una trabajosa combinación de ambos.

First, anything that afflicts the inner being is a disease. The inner being is the one that experiences pain and pleasure, joy and sorrow; the one that is the essence of your life. The state of your physical health and the state of your mental health both affect the inner being. Second, disease is a force and not matter. Both diseases and afflictions arise out of resistance. The body of a person who suffers from hay fever,

Aedion shifted on his pallet of moldy hay and bit back his bark of agony at the pain exploding along his ribs. Worse—worse by the day. His diluted Fae blood was the only thing that had kept him alive this long, trying desperately to heal him, but soon even the immortal grace in his veins would bow to the infection. It would be such a relief—such a blessed relief to know he couldn’t be used against her, and that he would soon see those he had secretly harbored in his shredded heart all these years. So he bore down on every spike of fever, every roiling fit of nausea and pain. Soon—soon Death would come to greet him. Aedion just hoped Death arrived before Aelin did.

Uno dice "perder la casa sería lo peor", y después hay cosas peores y uno daría la casa y la vida por volver a ese momento y soltar la rienda de ese maldito animal.

And now that mulch of dead imaginings beneath the feet of Temperance ladies, union-affiliated Vaudevillians and maimed men home from Europe has contaminated the groundwater of the upstart country's nightmares. Immigrants in their illimitable difference come to seem a separate species, taciturn and fish-eyed as though risen from the ocean waves that bore them in their transport, monstrous in their self-contained communities with bitter scents and indecipherable ululations, names, unsettlingly unpronounceable ensconced at isolated farms where beaten track is naught save idle rumour stagnant families nurse grievance, dreadful secrets and deformity in solitude; pools of declined humanity entirely unconnected to society by any tributary where ancestral prejudice or misconception may become the plaint of generations. Fabled and forbidden works of Arab alchemy are handed down across years cruel and volatile, trafficked between austere and colonial homes by charitable fellowships with ancient affectations or conveyed by fevered sea-captains, fugitive Huguenots or elderly hysterics formally accused of witchcraft. Young America, a sapling power grown suddenly so tall upon its diet of nickelodeons and motorcars, has sunk unwitting roots into an underworld of grotesque notions and archaic creeds, their feaful pull discernible below the weed-cracked sidewalk. Buried and forgotten, ominous philosophies await their day with hideous patience. Well! I think that's pretty darned good for a first attempt. A little over-wrought, perhaps, and I'm not sure about the style - I can't decide if its too modern of it's too old fashioned, but perhaps that's a good sign. Of course, I guess I'll have to introduce a plot and characters at some point, but I'll wrestle with that minor nuisance when I get to it. Perhaps I could contrive to have some hobo, maybe literally a hoe-boy or travelling itinerant farm labourer who's wandering from place to place around New England in the search for work; somebody who might reasonably become involved with all the various characters I'm hoping to investigate. Being a labourer, while it would lend a feasibility to any action or exertion that I wanted in the story, wouldn't mean that my protagonist was lacking in intelligence of education: this is often economically a far from certain country for a lot of people, and there's plenty of smart fellows - maybe even an aspiring writer like myself - who've found themselves leaving their homes and families to mooch around from farm to farm in hope of some hay-baling or fruit-picking that's unlikely to materialise. Perhaps a character like that, a rugged man who is sufficiently well read to justifiably allow me a few literary flourishes (and I can't help thinking that I'll probably end up casting some imagined variant of Tom Malone) would be the kind of of sympathetic hero and the kind of voice I'm looking for. Meanwhile I yawned a moment or two back, and while I'm not yet quite exhausted to the point where I can guarantee a deep and dreamless sleep, perhaps another six or seven vague ideas for stories might just do the soporific job.

A good herbal treatment for hay fever, especially for allergic sneezing and itching eyes, ears, and throats, is stinging nettles (Urtica dioica), especially a freeze-dried extract of the leaves of this plant. (See Appendix for a source.) One to two capsules every two to four hours as needed will control symptoms with none of the toxicity of antihistamines and steroids

it’s also in my heart to get her expelled. Or to ignore her completely. We could stay just close enough that she doesn’t get hyperthermia and die, but she might have to put up with a little light hay fever or something.

It was the cure for all evil when I was growing up. Runny nose? Chicken soup. Fever? Chicken soup. Scraped knee? Band-Aids and chicken soup. She even made me chicken soup when Shawn broke my nose.

Sarno contended that emotions such as guilt, anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem caused the brain to manufacture such physical symptoms as migraine headaches, muscle pain, repetitive strain injuries, even hay fever.

Ned Sherrin Ned Sherrin is a satirist, novelist, anthologist, film producer, and celebrated theater director who has been at the heart of British broadcasting and the arts for more than fifty years. I had met Diana, Princess of Wales--perhaps “I had been presented to” is more accurate--in lineups after charity shows that I had been compering and at which she was the royal guest of honor. There were the usual polite exchanges. On royal visits backstage, Princess Alexandra was the most relaxed, on occasion wickedly suggesting that she caught a glimpse of romantic chemistry between two performers and setting off giggles. Princess Margaret was the most artistically acute, the Queen the most conscientious; although she did once sweep past me to get to Bill Haley, of whom she was a fan. Prince Edward could, at one time, be persuaded to do an irreverent impression of his older brother, Prince Charles. Princess Diana seemed to enjoy herself, but she was still new to the job and did not linger down the line. Around this time, a friend of mine opened a restaurant in London. From one conversation, I gathered that although it was packed in the evenings, business was slow at lunchtime. Soon afterward, I got a very “cloak-and-dagger” phone call from him. He spoke in hushed tones, muttering something like “Lunch next Wednesday, small party, royal person, hush-hush.” From this, I inferred that he wanted me and, I had no doubt, other friends to bring a small party to dress the restaurant, to which he was bringing the “royal person” in a bid to up its fashionable appeal during the day. When Wednesday dawned, the luncheon clashed with a couple of meetings, and although feeling disloyal, I did not see how I was going to be able to round up three or four people--even for a free lunch. Guiltily, I rang his office and apologized profusely to his secretary for not being able to make it. The next morning, he telephoned, puzzled and aggrieved. “There were only going to be the four of us,” he said. “Princess Diana had been looking forward to meeting you properly. She was very disappointed that you couldn’t make it.” I felt suitably stupid--but, as luck had it, a few weeks later I found myself sitting next to her at a charity dinner at the Garrick Club. I explained the whole disastrous misunderstanding, and we had a very jolly time laughing at the coincidence that she was dining at this exclusive club before her husband, who had just been elected a member with some publicity. Prince Charles was in the hospital at the time recuperating from a polo injury. Although hindsight tells us that the marriage was already in difficulties, that was not generally known, so in answer to my inquiries, she replied sympathetically that he was recovering well. We talked a lot about the theater and her faux pas some years before when she had been to Noel Coward’s Hay Fever and confessed to the star, Penelope Keith, that it was the first Coward play that she had seen. “The first,” said Penelope, shocked. “Well,” Diana said to me, “I was only eighteen!” Our meeting was at the height of the AIDS crisis, and as we were both working a lot for AIDS charities, we had many notes to compare and friends to mourn. The evening ended with a dance--but being no Travolta myself, I doubt that my partnering was the high point for her.

I think there’s something wrong with my lungs. Maybe I have an allergy or hay fever. I think it might even be a fracture they forgot to fix. I worry about it a lot. I can picture the broken rib impaling my lungs, my heart.

substance which the body believes to be dangerous enters the body, by any route (it may be eaten, breathed or taken in through the skin), defence mechanisms begin to operate to deal with this challenge. This is happening all

I just thought,” she sobbed, “about all the times I used to come here and how everything looked then, and then I didn’t come here any more but I knew everything was just the same, and he was here, and now he’s dead, and everything of his is gone, and it’s all so different.” “Sure,” Jake said, patting her. “Go ahead and cry.” “It was just as if I didn’t really know what had happened, because so many other things kept on happening, but walking in here like this made me realize everything all of a sudden, Jake, and it’s awful.” “A lot of things are awful,” Jake said, “but you get used to them.” “I won’t ever get used to this, Jake. I’ll just keep thinking about walking in here and finding him dead, even when I’m an old woman and all my teeth fall out and nobody likes me any more, and I’ll never forget any of it, Jake, and I’ll never be happy again as long as I live, never, never, never.” “Cheer up,” Jake said, “you haven’t got hay fever.” She stopped crying and looked at him. “What about

Why your eyes wet, Mr. Clete?” “I got hay fever,” I said. “No, you no understand yourself, Mr. Clete. Somebody make you hate yourself when you little boy, and now you think you no good. You stop thinking like that ever again.” “Okay,

But compared to non-HSPs, most of us are: • Better at spotting errors and avoiding making errors. • Highly conscientious. • Able to concentrate deeply. (But we do best without distractions.) • Especially good at tasks requiring vigilance, accuracy, speed, and the detection of minor differences. • Able to process material to deeper levels of what psychologists call “semantic memory.” • Often thinking about our own thinking. • Able to learn without being aware we have learned. • Deeply affected by other people’s moods and emotions. Of course, there are many exceptions, especially to our being conscientious. And we don’t want to be self-righteous about this; plenty of harm can be done in the name of trying to do good. Indeed, all of these fruits have their bruised spots. We are so skilled, but alas, when being watched, timed, or evaluated, we often cannot display our competence. Our deeper processing may make it seem that at first we are not catching on, but with time we understand and remember more than others. This may be why HSPs learn languages better (although arousal may make one less fluent than others when speaking). By the way, thinking more than others about our own thoughts is not self-centeredness. It means that if asked what’s on our mind, we are less likely to mention being aware of the world around us, and more likely to mention our inner reflections or musings. But we are no less likely to mention thinking about other people. Our bodies are different too. Most of us have nervous systems that make us: • Specialists in fine motor movements. • Good at holding still. • “Morning people.” (Here there are many exceptions.) • More affected by stimulants like caffeine unless we are very used to them. • More “right-brained” (less linear, more creative in a synthesizing way). • More sensitive to things in the air. (Yes, that means more hay fever and skin rashes.) Overall, again, our nervous systems seem designed to react to subtle experiences, which also makes us slower to recover when we must react to intense stimuli. But HSPs are not in a more aroused state all the time. We are not “chronically aroused” in day-to-day life or when asleep. We are just more aroused by new or prolonged stimulation. (Being an HSP is not the same as being “neurotic”—that is, constantly anxious for no apparent reason).

She sought advice about declaring herself as one of Them, but once it was explained to her that doing so would involve wearing hooded black robes, conducting secret meetings in vast underground caverns, and manipulating the destiny of millions on a twenty-four-hour basis, possibly while fondling a fluffy white cat, she realized that this would mean missing bridge club on Wednesdays; and since in any case cats gave Mrs. Pewter hay fever, she opted instead for a decoction of willow bark for whenever the voices in her head got too bad.

And now that mulch of dead imaginings beneath the feet of Temperance ladies, union-affiliated Vaudevillians and maimed men home from Europe has contaminated the groundwater of the upstart country's nightmares. Immigrants in their illimitable difference come to seem a separate species, taciturn and fish-eyed as though risen from the ocean waves that bore them in their transport, monstrous in their self-contained communities with bitter scents and indecipherable ululations, names, unsettlingly unpronounceable ensconced at isolated farms where beaten track is naught save idle rumour stagnant families nurse grievance, dreadful secrets and deformity in solitude; pools of declined humanity entirely unconnected to society by any tributary where ancestral prejudice or misconception may become the plaint of generations. Fabled and forbidden works of Arab alchemy are handed down across years cruel and volatile, trafficked between austere and colonial homes by charitable fellowships with ancient affectations or conveyed by fevered sea-captains, fugitive Huguenots or elderly hysterics formally accused of witchcraft. Young America, a sapling power grown suddenly so tall upon its diet of nickelodeons and motorcars, has sunk unwitting roots into an underworld of grotesque notions and archaic creeds, their feaful pull discernible below the weed-cracked sidewalk. Buried and forgotten, ominous philosophies await their day with hideous patience. Well! I think that's pretty darned good for a first attempt. A little over-wrought, perhaps, and I'm not sure about the style - I can't decide if its too modern of it's too old-fashioned, but perhaps that's a good sign. Of course, I guess I'll have to introduce a plot and characters at some point, but I'll wrestle with that minor nuisance when I get to it. Perhaps I could contrive to have some hobo, maybe literally a hoe-boy or travelling itinerant farm labourer who's wandering from place to place around New England in the search for work; somebody who might reasonably become involved with all the various characters I'm hoping to investigate. Being a labourer, while it would lend a feasibility to any action or exertion that I wanted in the story, wouldn't mean that my protagonist was lacking in intelligence or education: this is often economically a far from certain country for a lot of people, and there's plenty of smart fellows - maybe even an aspiring writer like myself - who've found themselves leaving their homes and families to mooch around from farm to farm in hope of some hay-baling or fruit-picking that's unlikely to materialise. Perhaps a character like that, a rugged man who is sufficiently well read to justifiably allow me a few literary flourishes (and I can't help thinking that I'll probably end up casting some imagined variant of Tom Malone) would be the kind of of sympathetic hero and the kind of voice I'm looking for. Meanwhile I yawned a moment or two back, and while I'm not yet quite exhausted to the point where I can guarantee a deep and dreamless sleep, perhaps another six or seven vague ideas for stories might just do the soporific job.

Systemic symptoms–both branches (figures 4.2 and 4.3). A sixth group of symptoms from sternocleidomastoid trigger points can include disturbed perception of the amount of weight carried in the hands, cold sweat on the forehead, and the generation of excess mucus in the sinuses, nasal cavities, and throat. They can be the simple explanation for your sinus congestion, sinus drainage, phlegm in the throat, chronic cough, and continual hay fever or cold symptoms. A persistent dry cough can often be stopped with massage to the sternal branch near its attachment to the breastbone (Simons, Travell, and Simons 1999). Causes

Along with doubt about the accuracy of conventional diagnoses, there came the realization that the primary tissue involved was muscle, specifically the muscles of the neck, shoulders, back, and buttocks. But even more important was the observation that 88 percent of the people seen had histories of such things as tension or migraine headache, heartburn, hiatus hernia, stomach ulcer, colitis, spastic colon, irritable bowel syndrome, hay fever, asthma, eczema, and a variety of other disorders, all of which were strongly suspected of being related to tension.

Sorel: I wish she hadn’t sent me the beastly book, I must say something nice about it. Simon : The binding’s very dashing.

As any hay-fever sufferer will notice (with a sure degree of horror), ragweed produces so much pollen that it often can be seen leaving the plants in clouds.

David Ibañez was in town. . . . Both he and Rafael suffered from terrible hay fever and nursed cups of a naturally decongesting tea made from the mahuang plant, brewing more tea for anyone else who needed it. David had brought the mahuang seeds from an herbalist in Shanghai, and Rafael kept a good crop of the low, scrubby bush in his yard at all times. He said it was the best hay fever treatment he knew, and whenever Santa Ana weather kicked in, he was the most popular man in the valley.

May, there I was, knee deep in weeds—including some hay fever–inducing goldenrod

A continuación encontrará un esquema de los elementos de un guión básico en orden. Acuerdo: Son afirmaciones que no generan polémica y que empiezan a enmarcar la dirección de la explicación. Podrían formularse empezando cada oración con "Todos estamos de acuerdo en que...", por ejemplo, "Todos estamos de acuerdo en que las ventas han descendido el último año" o "Todos estamos de acuerdo en que los precios del almacenamiento digital no han dejado de bajar en los últimos años". Con ellas, ofrecemos a la audiencia información fácil de comprender y entender. Contexto, problema/sufrimiento y visión de la solución: Las explicaciones son muy adecuadas para revelar por qué tiene sentido una idea. Un modo de hacerlo es exponer con claridad un problema real que todo el mundo entienda. Hay un conflicto y un sufrimiento. "Cuando descienden las ventas, nos vemos obligados a tomar decisiones difíciles y a pensar muy bien en qué gastamos el dinero". "Con el descenso de los precios de almacenamiento, nos perdemos una gran oportunidad de replantearnos cómo invertimos en nuestra infraestructura". A continuación, presentamos una visión de futuro. Suelen ser oraciones del tipo qué ocurriría si que inspiran a la

JUDITH (in bell-like tones): So many illusions shattered – so many dreams trodden in the dust— DAVID (collapsing on to the form in hysterics): Love’s Whirlwind! Dear old Love’s Whirlwind! SOREL (runs over to R., pushes MYRA up stage and poses): I don’t understand. You and Victor – My God! JUDITH (moves away L., listening): Hush! Isn’t that little Pam crying—? SIMON (savagely): She’ll cry more, poor mite, when she realises her mother is a – a— JUDITH (shrieking and turning to SIMON): Don’t say it! Don’t say it! SOREL: Spare her that.

A twelve-year-old in a man’s body, all he does is takedowns of people based on their physical appearance—short, fat, bald, whatever it is. There weren’t producers who could say, Don’t say that … We would just send him through the doors and hit Record … It’s like being in the backseat of a car being driven by a really drunk driver … holy shit. He was as incoherent then … no more, no less … as he is now, repeating thoughts and weird phrases … His weird sniffing thing (‘I have hay fever’) … [He was] always eating Oscar Mayer baloney … [Once he] pulled a slice of baloney out and shoved it in my mouth…

prime example is the Japanese herb ashitaba, which is available as a tea or powder and helps prevent zombie cells. It is traditionally used to treat high blood pressure, hay fever, gout, and digestive issues, but researchers recently discovered a compound in the plant called dimethoxychalcone (DMC—no relation to the famous rappers), which slows senescence. In worms and fruit flies, DMC increases life-span by 20 percent.

Neutrophils Neutrophilia • Infection: bacterial, fungal • Trauma: surgery, burns • Infarction: myocardial infarct, pulmonary embolus, sickle-cell crisis • Inflammation: gout, rheumatoid arthritis, ulcerative colitis, Crohn’s disease • Malignancy: solid tumours, Hodgkin lymphoma • Myeloproliferative disease: polycythaemia, chronic myeloid leukaemia • Physiological: exercise, pregnancy Neutropenia • Infection: viral, bacterial (e.g. Salmonella), protozoal (e.g. malaria) • Drugs: see Box 24.11 • Autoimmune: connective tissue disease • Alcohol • Bone marrow infiltration: leukaemia, myelodysplasia • Congenital: Kostmann’s syndrome Eosinophils Eosinophilia • Allergy: hay fever, asthma, eczema • Infection: parasitic • Drug hypersensitivity: e.g. gold, sulphonamides • Skin disease • Connective tissue disease: polyarteritis nodosa • Malignancy: solid tumours, lymphomas • Primary bone marrow disorders: myeloproliferative disorders, hypereosinophilia syndrome (HES), acute myeloid leukaemia Basophils Basophilia • Myeloproliferative disease: polycythaemia, chronic myeloid leukaemia • Inflammation: acute hypersensitivity, ulcerative colitis, Crohn’s disease • Iron deficiency Monocytes Monocytosis • Infection: bacterial (e.g. tuberculosis) • Inflammation: connective tissue disease, ulcerative colitis, Crohn’s disease • Malignancy: solid tumours Lymphocytes Lymphocytosis • Infection: viral, bacterial (e.g. Bordetella pertussis) • Lymphoproliferative disease: chronic lymphocytic leukaemia, lymphoma • Post-splenectomy Lymphopenia • Inflammation: connective tissue disease • Lymphoma • Renal failure • Sarcoidosis • Drugs: corticosteroids, cytotoxics • Congenital: severe combined