Migraine

I wake to the sound of hammer banging on metal and curse the builders through the thin walls of the hallway. Half asleep, only a slither of my eyelids apart, I wrench myself from beneath the moss like rug and poke my head out of the hallway window. I glare at the two men who are trying to manoeuver a metal table up a set of narrow stairs. An innate desire to ball all my rage out the window at them rises within me but I refrain. In the same way I get rudely awaken by early morning builders, I stay up late into the night watching TV and listening to music.

I return to bed, cursing the fact that despite all my efforts I seem to constantly remain in a nocturnal like routine. This wouldn’t be so bad but for some reason the larger majority of the human population have decided that a nine to five work routine is more appropriate then say night work or being a student. The sensible thing to do now would be to make myself a cup of tea and force myself to stay awake so as to switch to a more daylight efficient routine. However I soon find I am back in bed, quickly dozing once more.

When I wake three hours later, after several snoozes of the alarm I am groggy and fuzzy. The early morning disturbance has resulted in me oversleeping and now I feel lethargic and grumpy. Getting out of bed is an insurmountable task. My muscles ache with a sharp acute pain and my head weighs like a cannon ball. To add salt to the wounds, it is bitterly cold outside the warm confines of the duvet and I frantically pull on my slippers and thrown on my dressing gown to stave off the chill.

The worst part of my morning is opening the living room window for the cat. I pull up the blinds, always forgetting the harsh sunlight on the other side and receive a flash of pain to the head as my recompense. It only gets worse as I push open the window. A wall of noise assaults me through the gap, accompanied by the sub zero February gales. It’s all too much, a cacophony of whines assail me from the Sainsbury’s car park, consisting of barking dogs, tantruming toddlers and reversing cars.

I retreat to the darkness and safety of the kitchen. Even the cat thinks twice before disappearing through the window gap, her eyes puffy and her ears pricked up high. The bubbling of the kettle and the clink of the cups in my hand grates on my ears and I cut of the boiling of the water as quickly as possible, to nurse my throbbing cranium.

It is far too bright and cold in the living room but I force myself to sit in my armchair anyway. Slowly, the pain lessens, aided in full by the steaming cup of tea in my hand. However, as I grow more accustom to the world inside and out, a deep hunger grips me and I feel my neglected stomach rumble in protest.

I search the kitchen desperately for some form of sustenance but realize with a sinking sensation that there is nothing salvageable for consummation. Grumbling, I dress quickly and sloppily, beyond caring that I am not wearing any socks and the jumper I am wearing has several curry stains emblazoned upon it.

Sainsbury’s is almost too much too bear and I hastily make a beeline for my pre decided breakfast choice, pain au chocolat’s. I am confronted by my three worse things on this journey: lots of people, loud noises and far too bright displays. A loud bang explodes in my head, as a Sainsbury’s worker throws a crate on the floor absent-mindedly. The rattle of trolley wheels and clang of shopping baskets against shelves follow me around like a bad curse and I speed up, eager to grab what I need and get out as soon as possible. I jump and nearly drop my purchase when the all powerful intercom announcement trembles around the store from an undisclosed location. Sweating, I make a dash for the self-service machine, narrowly avoiding two intersecting trolleys and nearly collide with a curious toddler who is wandering away from his father straight into my path. The self-service machine is slow and when it does finally accept my money it insists I take my change in a highly aggressive and persistent manner. I rush through the automatic doors and power walk to my courtyard. I see the cat by my window and hurry towards her, sensing an ally amongst the chaos.

© [Daniel Ashby] and [Ashby Tales], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Daniel Ashby] and [Ashby Tales] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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