The Flare

I like my Greek rosé ημίγλυκα, semi-sweet. Unfortunately, my body rejects alcohol, so by the end of every Grecian road trip—days that mark a rare spell of caving to my vices—I’m doubled over in pain. But that’s fine; I can handle pain. When you tire of the womb and release yourself semi-formed into the wild despite being unable to breathe, a life of ailments is to be expected. And so it is that, though spending much of my existence in the company of countless consultants, being frivolously misdiagnosed (oops, slap on the wrist! If only you bore balls, we’d have taken you seriously), I am currently experiencing what the white coats are calling a flare, which, given the dire state of the NHS, means I’ve been buffeted by turbulence all year—woe is Wednesday’s child. Naturally, I grew weary of waiting for salvation, and threw myself at the mercy of the gods—if I were to suffer, let it be in the holy land, Ελλάδα. Well, Asclepius eventually caught wind of my plan (we can’t keep secrets from the Anemoi) and sent an offering of medication to tame the so-called flare. I’d call it a gift, but the side effects deem it unworthy. The course ends just before I fly, and I am praying Dionysus greets me at the airport, for I cannot imagine a Greece without him.