Why does my head hurt so MUCH?
Disjointed, crap, head-achey boring post follows:
I go to bed early with a book (currently re-reading "Ten Days That Shook The World", John Reed's splendid eyewitness account of the 7th. November, 1917 Bolshevik Revolution) and a glass of Rioja and wake up this morning with what can only be described as a stinking fucking headache.
Ow!
I feel like someone's been hammering Kryptonite into my sinuses all night and is now beating my head rhythmically with large parts of a tree.
(Sassy's been to a wine-guzzling evening and I bet she wakes up clear-headed).
I drag my stinking carcass down the landing to the shower.
I have two choices: stay in bed with painkillers and suffer, or get dressed and drive into Norwich for breakfast and some fresh air.
Into Norwich it is. Kick myself in the head with strong coffee. Oh, fuck … Mince pies in the coffee shop … Christmas is coming … Fuckity fuck … Roll on death …
Ow!
They're playing bloody New Age crap over the speakers. At least it's not Christmas music. Last week it was Bowie singing Rebel Rebel. God, I love that song! This week, New Age … I gotta change my coffee shop …
Ow Ow Ow!
Phil turns up and prescribes a nice walk in the (very) fresh air up to Borders. He's ordered me a birthday present but it hasn't arrived yet, so decides to get me a book to tide me over until the grim day (monday), and sensibly won't buy a book from a shop playing New Age crap …
He's a star. He buys me the authorised edition of the final 9/11 Commission Report.
A while back, I saw that godawful right-wing spin dramatised version of events on the telly with Harvey Keitel (shame on you Harvey) and the Report has been on my shopping list ever since (regular readers will know my stance on always searching out source material).
…
Sorry. Tuned out for a bit there. Two minutes' silence …
Today is Armistice Day and I've got the service from St. Paul's on the box. Up in the midlands tomorrow, at the Remembrance Sunday service, Peahen will break the two minute silence in her town by playing the Last Post. I'm so proud of her. She's been cacking herself with nerves. But she's brilliant, so I know she will be perfect.
…
Fuck! That's scary. The Lord Mayor's Procession has just got under way in London and there's Gog and Magog on the TV, the city giants made entirely out of wicker. Edward Woodward must be shitting himself in case they set fire to him again.
Ow!
Bugger this. I give up. I'm going to take some painkillers and go to bed … What a waste of a perfectly usable saturday morning.
15 comments:
Saturdays are for relaxing.
Wow! Pretty intense blog, Lynn.
Welcome, anyway, to the world of a guy with a headache that's faded enough to get up and avoid doing housework.
I have to do all my housework, etc. at the weekends - and consequently cannot relax on a saturday - as I commute seven hours a day into London and back (see posts passim), which was what worried me about your blog.
If, God forbid, that's your real situation, then I hope that things have picked up since October. Being a long distance commuter, I hate jumpers; they seriously fuck my life up and there are a LOT of them. Please don't be another one.
Have a relaxing saturday on me.
Dive, I'm sorry you're feeling so miserable, and there's nothing I can do to help.
Yes, today is Armistice Day, or Veteran's day. It's also my mother's 81st birthday, and since she lives hundreds of miles away, a phone call and the sunflowers I sent the other day will have to suffice. Take care.
You've helped by dragging me off my butt and down to the overgrown depths of my garden to look for things to post for your photo scavenge.
I'll post someting later, but right now it's lunchtime over here on the small island, and I'm feeling sufficiently recovered to do violence to vegetables.
And a very happy birthday to your mother!
Really sorry, Dive to hear that you haven't found the cure for these migranes yet. Maybe there's something in those Wikken books in Ottakars? Go on - take a look - you know you want to. Or perhaps they just contain recipes for things which taste like knudsen's wee and do nothing at all, but nothing ventured....
I second Robyn - it's dead frustrating to be powerless to help - and you built up so much good Karma on the key incident day - you should be free of these heads for years!!!
Oh, it's not a migraine, Pea; I wouldn't be up here typing, I'd be in a screaming and vomiting heap on the bathroom floor.
And I've not had one for months after sexy Doctor Amanda sorted out my lifestyle for me.
Good luck tomorrow. I'll be rooting for you.
here's something to cheer you up - I'm a star - what a load of squit!!! Star dork maybe!
I'm like Sassy - I don't do these - except I do get tempted sometimes for a laugh.... I could almost take it seriously if it wasn't for the cod bit of John Lennon at the end - what's that supposed to mean?? Makes it look like someone's just hooked up a random crap quote generator to this page!
Hee hee …
You ARE a star, but not a tacky crap Hallmark style one like that.
A random crap generator?
Isn't that Bush's speechwriter?
No - they're excellent people.
"Here - I've got a good one - 'the French don't have a word for entrepreneur...'"
"He'll never fall for that one, it's too obvious"
"Bet he will...."
Ouch!
That's bad.
I'm sorry to report that it seems to be an urban myth - see here.
Of course it's an urban myth.
Entrepeneur has four syllables. Bush can never get past two without fucking up.
I hope you feel better now.
Yuck. I do know how you feel, and I love that John Reed book.
Happy Birthday, Robyn's mom.
I meant to mark Armistice Day (I don't really do the Veteren's Day), but I was working, and I missed the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour.
Peahen, I hope it was a success, and I'm sure it was.
Rebel Rebel and Bowie never gets old!!
Hot Tramp, I love you so …
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