Up there with Haley's Comet

I got off a conference call this afternoon and went out to speak to Delta, and he nearly keeled right over in his seat.
"OMG what' happened to you?!!!"
"What?! What?!" When your spouse looks at you with fear in his eyes, you can't help but pick up that something must be amiss in your appearance. I ran to the bathroom to look in the mirror. And almost fainted from sheer fright.


All of a sudden, of it's own accord, without so much as the courtesy to ask permission, my eye had decided to blow up on me. There it was, ogre like, suddenly turned into a tomato. I stared at it in horror.

"Does it hurt?" Delta had suddenly materialised behind me in the mirror.
I prodded at it gingerly. "No, not really. Just feels a bit sore."
We both looked at my eye in alarm, wondering what one does next.
"What happened? What did you do to it?!"
"Nothing! One second it was itching a bit, and two minutes later, this. I can't go out in public! I'm not leaving the apartment until this sorts itself out!" The enormity of my tomato-eye was beginning to dawn on me and I started spiralling into a panic.


Then it suddenly occurred to me, the last time I'd seen myself like this. About the same time four years ago, I had suddenly woken up one morning with a tomato for an eye.

I had solved the mystery. Apparently, this is just one of those bodily afflictions which will come at me every four years, just out of the blue. Regular like clockwork. Right up there with Ol' Faithful, and the leap year. Right up there with Haley's Comet, it's the tomato-eye.