If there’s one thing I’ve learned about this part of Midgard, it’s that you can’t count on the weather for anything. Well, that is not strictly true. You can count on it to be contrary. If you plan a picnic, it pours. If the wildflowers are languishing for want of a drink, sunshine abounds. It has been a dry spring thus far, so the wildflowers are struggling.
Thus the human female and Sigyn and I are poking about on campus, seeing what the irrigated flora is up to. (In times of drought, go where the water is.)
In front of the Academic Building, right behind the statue of that fellow with three names, the one on whose boot-toes spare change accumulates, there are two small trees which are, at the moment, fully bedecked with pendulous clusters of urple flowers.
I did not spell that wrong. You may recall that last year these blossomed in April, and Sigyn and I had a disagreement as to the “delightfulness” of their aroma.
I still hate it. “Loathe,” spread thinly, doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Fake grape air-freshener. Substandard lollipops. Second-rate soap. Bleargh. They do say that the bright red seeds are toxic and can induce hallucinations. The stink alone will do that!
The queasiness factor is exacerbated by the fact that it is a breezy day. Not only is the odor (I refuse to call it an “aroma”; aromas are pleasant) being wafted far and wide across the plaza, but the tree is swaying abominably.
Humans have approximately one-hundred words that mean “vomit.” Sigyn, if we don’t get out of this tree right this minute, you will learn what we call it in Asgard…