I have a headache.
It makes my head hurt.
It also makes playing Bloggle very difficult, because the words get stuck in the metaphorical (or perhaps, rather worringly, literal) gloop that my brain is currently at the mercy of. Deary me.
I would take some paracetamol or other pain killing device, but unfortunately my throat is too narrow to allow such large objects through. The good news is that I need never fear of choking. Yes, I’d rather have a headache than be dead, it must be said. Dr. Seuss has gotten loose, and plucked a tasty-looking goose.
But why do I have this headhurt? I must question it. I am not dehydrated. Indeed, my fluid levels seem to be ample at the moment. This leaves me with one other possibility.
The music and crowd-loud at work today. Goodness me, it was busy today. Busy like no-one’s business, you’d be right in saying. A vicious cycle took place whereby the music in the shop would be turned up if you couldn’t hear it properly, but as the day went on, the shopulation (a clever mix of the words ‘shop’ and ‘population’, I’m sure you’ll agree) increased beyond comfort, and so the music was turned up to match. It wouldn’t be so bad if modern music was worth getting a headache over. Yeah, that’s right, Lady Roux and Florence and the Gaga, I’m not buying your albums. Partly because I don’t know which artist is which, but mostly because I couldn’t care less for your electropop.
And if I could, then I would, believe you me.
The quality of the customers wasn’t worth nominating for the Mercury prize, either. Far from pleasant chatter and chortling, the noise was a hazy fizz of shouting, cackling and crying, mingled with shouts of “next please” and “can I help?”. The only truly pleasant thing I heard at work today was one of the new Saturday girls, whose demeanour and tones are both refreshingly polite and humble. She’s almost old fashioned in her phrasing. For example, she said to me for small favours and pointing things out, “Oh my goodness” and “thank you ever so much”. The norm is a brief “cheers” and off they pop. Not the Saturday girl, oh no. She was like a Soother inexplicably mixed in with a rack of Clubland compilations and spikes.
Headache inducing spikes.
The headpound is still upon my cranium, but it’s fading like a film transition, so I’m hoping to be free of pain within the next couple of hours. Slowing the process down is that the X Factor is currently weeping and meowing its way into my ears, like a saddened cat. I’m also going to make it worse for myself later by playing the Uncharted 2 multiplayer beta which, as you may or may not know, involves more than your fair share of gunfire and fantastic orchestral pieces.
To depart from the subject of brain pain, I can’t decide if I like the new advert for Rocky chocolate bars or not. ”ROCKY TASTES ACE WITH ELBOW SPACE.” What if I like eating my Rocky in an enclosed area, where there is not elbow space to speak of? I suppose the advantage of having a flawed advert is that you can make the next one better, and while this simple logic doesn’t solve any problems at all, it does highlight the problem with producing a fantastic debut advert. No one will want to buy your product if the second advertising campaign is worse than the first one. This could just be me, however.
Is this blog post boring you? Well, whether it is or isn’t, I’m closing the door, now. Oh, and locking it as well. Can’t have you pesky internet types getting in and wrecking the place while I’m asleep.
Run along now, little ones.
Unless you’re big ones. Oh, just run. RUN. I’m sending the dogs after you. Don’t turn around, they hate that. Their award-winning speed is fueled by hatred.
