Tear Ducts, Onions and Chillies

I’ve had a blocked tear duct for at least two weeks. It looks a little like I’m keeping a giant Easter Egg under my eye. I’ve checked, there’s no Lindt or Geldhof surprise waiting for me, which is a pity.

I refuse to visit the doctor for something as puny as an eye duct. When I go, I like to tick off things like back ops, neck fusions, foot reconstructions or the odd skin graft on the troublesome head. Eye will not admit defeat to something the size on a pin prick.

I have tried various methods to unblock the duct. Using my powers of deduction (see what I did there?) and Google, I set about finding a solution. Dr Google suggested a hot compress. I heated up a face cloth and reclined on the couch in a tragic pose, calling faintly for tea. The compress did nothing. I’m still hoping for the tea.

The next was to try an eye solution. I poured drops into my eye. Nothing helped. Julia did mention that the drops were so past their expiry date that Noah may have dropped them off the ark. ‘Perhaps’, she chuckled darkly, ‘you’ve become fossil-eyesed.’  I’m sure under less trying circumstances I would have been amused.

Garth, the helpful pharmacist, gave me a tube of cream. ‘Put it into the pouch under your eye,’ he instructed. Pouch? I wanted to tell him he’d ‘roo the day’ but I wasn’t sure that he’d get my little kangaroo joke. The cream did glue my eyelids together very successfully though.

This morning I had a brainwave. Surely, if I could make myself cry, the duct would be forced to wash itself clear? I tried looking in the mirror – that usually makes me cry. No luck this time as my vision was too blurred to get the full effect. It was time to get serious.

I marched into the kitchen and chopped up the biggest onion I could find. I chopped it finely. I inhaled the chopping board’s onion breath fumes. I even rubbed my fingers under my eyes. Not a single tear emerged.

Julia, tired of the mad chopping sounds coming from the kitchen, suggested I cover my head with a towel and hold it over a bowl of steaming water. Now, I do trust Julia you understand, but I’m sure I heard someone cackling. It was hard to hear through the layers of towels and steam, perhaps I was mistaken. The steam didn’t help. I’m sure by the time I have to be seen in public, my face will look less like a giant, boiled tomato.

There was only one thing left in my arsenal of tricks – the chilli cure. Lurking in the fridge is a jar of chilli paste so potent it could make Khulubuse Zuma do the Harlem Shake. When heated up, it gives off the type of noxious fumes that the Weird Sisters would be proud of. I toiled over a frying pan, I even doubled my trouble and ladled in more of the paste. The fumes rose, the dogs fled, Julia had an asthma attack, the non-stick frying pan may be a little more sticky in future.

As for me, I watched dry-eyed.

(All events in this account are true. Bugger.)