Here’s my headache:

It burns like sulphur through my right eye cavity, into the back of my throat.

It throbs like a sub woofer at carnival.

It screams like a particularly excitable child on a roller coaster.

It stings like witch hazel on an open wound.

It lingers like fig perfume in a warm lift.

It might be caused by medication, or eye strain, or London, or stress.

It cannot be cured by food, or fizzy water, or ibuprofen, or splashing my face, or lying in a dark room with a flannel over my eyes for fifty minutes.

It moans and whinges and tugs and will not let me forget that it exists.

It conspires with other bits of my body to make me feel worse. Headache. Plus fatigue. Plus nausea. Plus stomach pangs. Plus thighs stiff and sore from a cold bike ride on Sunday. More than equals. More than a match for me.