Day 82 – Not Yet Been Named

How to cure a headache. It’s terrible.



Word count: 601


Headache. Massive headache. It was like a train crashing through my cerebrum. A million chainsaws were playing their symphony and a drill was preparing noisily for its forthcoming concerto. Hammers hitting tambourines at a thousand beats per second were ringing in my ears. It was hell. Pure hell.

Quite what had caused it, I wasn’t sure? Could it have been the hours of rubbish blaring out of the television that I’d been trying to avoid? Perhaps it was related to the tiny sip of cherry vodka the night before? It could not possibly be related to the vast quantities of cheese that I had eaten, usurped only by the umpteen chocolates and little snacks and nibbles. I was full. I was full to bursting point. Perhaps the food was filling up in all the spaces in between my organs and finally it had reached my brain. I might explode. I was probably going to. A huge explosion of cheese and wine, or grey matter and all those potential novels and scripts might be heard for miles around.

There was only one thing for it: a cure. I’d down a pint of water; I’d drank it upside down (isn’t that for hiccups?)  I’d popped some paracetomal, slurped some ibuprofene and I was now eyeing up the calpol with nostalgic desire. Despite all the drugs swirling around and partying with my red blood cells, I was still in cerebral agony. I had a train to catch in less than an hour. I had a story to write within that time. There were some dancing teddy bears on the television. I think I had gone nuts. I needed a cute. And fast.

I flew down the stairs to the kitchen. Could crackers and yet more cheese cure me? Could perhaps a pint or three of milk? Was there enough humous to drown out the headache? I felt even more ill looking at all the food and the absence of the boxes and packets that I’d scoffed. I reeled back from the cupboard in pain as a fresh wave hit the front of my forehead. The drill was kicking the chainsaws off stage now and it was time for the concentrated internal lobotomy.

Some hysterical television presenter burst into a shrill laugh. I grabbed the cream crackers and threw them at the television. The crackers smashed through the glass and the annoying woman fell silent. In fact she completely disappeared from view. All that remained of her was a smoking, shard screen. And my headache was somewhat reduced. It was fantastic.

There was a moment where I stared at the cupboard – the vault of plenty – and thought of the giant screen upstairs, no doubt playing some rubbish television show to an empty audience. There was some Rivita, a box of breadsticks, some biscuits, a box of custard and a tin of peas. I took the lot. I ran upstairs and charged at the television like a kamakazi fighter pilot – launching my air to surface missiles. The rivita splatted against the screen; the biscuits took out the hi-fi system; the breadsticks pathetically crumbled upon impact and the tin of peas walloped the television back against the wall in a defeated and crumpled state. I was victorious. Not only could no annoying television shows be heard within the house, but my headache was gone. Conveniently, it was also time to catch my train. So I packed the rest of my belongings and headed out the door; careful to take a few snack-based grenades for the journey, on the off-chance that Scotrail would be cause of a resurgence.

~ by S.G. Mark on December 28, 2011.

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