I had this headache. Wherever I went

she followed, though I didn’t want

her near me. As a hangover she’d lift

quite quickly. But a stab on the left

would start off a migraine, nausea, the lot

so that my darkened room was lit

by aura explosions. Her red-hot vice

was a cap of neuralgia and she wasn’t averse

to a little tinnitus thrown in for fun.

I’d try a broadside of Nurofen

but nothing would shift her, not frozen peas,

nor wormwood. I was on my knees,

begging for mercy. ‘You’ve got to see

this is more fun for you than me,

we’ve got to end it. I’d rather be dead.

I need you like a hole in the head.’

She flinched. I felt her draw softly away,

offended. That week was a holiday

from hurting. Now I was free of her throb

I started to act like a total slob,

ate what I liked – kebabs, very late –

watched trash on the telly, was intimate

with dubious women, didn’t hear a peep

from the temples she’d left, never rested up.

But there are some things that are worse than pain.

Soon I felt totally put upon