The never-ending Migraine.......

I've written a few times before about my arch-enemy, Mr Migraine, but unfortunately, he again started to visit me far more often than I - and Love Chunks, Sapphire and my work mates - would like.

I have never seen Mr Migraine in person, and don't get those 'flashing lights' that some other sufferers get as a warning, so he's an invisible figure to me. He's reduced to an imaginary but thoroughly malevolent troll-like creature in my mind.

Quite literally in my mind. He somehow makes his deliberately clumsy entrance into my brain cavity (no doubt quite easily via my ear canals); a red hot poker in one hand, an egg beater in the other and a metal nut-cracker wedged in his teeth. He then proceeds to frantically jab, whack, thrust, whirl and beat these instruments of torture against the back of my eyes (favouring the left one mostly), or cheekbones, hairline, forehead, jaw and teeth.

For added amusement, he will sometimes hurl himself in a devilish stage dive directly into my grey matter and make sure he deliberately flays about in the rubbery ooze like a drunk at a pool party for as long as it keeps him interested.

If his mood is even more foul, he will spitefully squeeze the 'Nausea and Vomit' segment of my brain before skipping off to give the 'Eight Hours of Agony' and 'A Dozen Urgent Trots to the Toilet' buttons a good going-over as well.

This is not to say that he is victorious every time. Mr Migraine does not always achieve his maximum aim of reducing me to a moaning, foetal-positioned wreck hiding in the darkness of my bedroom hearing the happy sounds of Love Chunks and Sapphire's chatter in the other end of the house but unable to join them because it is too loud too bright too noisy too hurtful too thumpy too glarey too painful too....

No, Mr M gets busy or lazy and sends an apprentice over to do his dirty work. With his warty little mitts carrying fruit knives and maraccas and his mouth full of thumb tacks, he growls, "Get over here, RumpledForeSkin. I haven't got the time to be holding your hand all day. You can bugger off and go find MillyMoo and start giving her The Treatment, OK? You got that, you miserable, snivelling little phelgm ball?" At this point, RumpledForeSkin will meekly agree and nervously bow out of the room, glad to be out of Mr M's way.

Like all apprentices, he will have learned to be polite but also extremely wary. Similar to all other spotty juniors, he is the lowest in rank, the weakest in power and the most eager to please, and therefore would have been the butt of many jokes and the butt of many drunken passes at Friday night work drinks.

RumpledForeSkin would also have been sent to the post office for a 'verbal agreement', given the phone number of the zoo to ask for a Mr G. Raff and been laughed out of Mitre 10 for requesting a can of striped paint. Har hardy harrr.

Therefore his attempts to rouse up a migraine in me are timid and ineffective. His little taps behind my eyeball or against my temples give me ample time to find my tablets, slurp down a double espresso and slow my pace down to a crawl. Rumply-babes is then forced to go back to head office, vainly trying to work out how he's going to complete the days' paperwork: "Umm, she was already dead.....Erm she no longer works there....... She was listening to Robbie Williams on her ipod.....the Cold and Flu guy had already arrived and had cordoned off the site....."

Sadly, Mr Migraine was not satisfied. He got very pissed off with RumpledForeSkin yesterday and shoved him aside roughly, yelling, "I'm going to go and do the bloody job myself!"

Which he did. Extremely well.

Bastard.