And I want an 80s alternative rock themed party

Today I wake to discover my face, eyes and forehead have been stabbed in the night by the knife-wielding headache of death.

I lift my head from the pillow with a pain so severe that within ten seconds I am contemplating my mortality. Perhaps now is the right time to compile the list of songs I want played down the pub after Dig sets me on fire at the crem.

And if only, after the first two aspirins and vat of coffee, that thought had gone away like normal. No. This headpain hasn't softened one micron as the day has wore on. In fact the pain has grown to booming and resonating at such an enormous amplitude in my forehead, that I may be affecting radio waves in your locality.

To get rid of the thing and return you safely to Radio 4 I have now swallowed six aspirin, injected neat caffeine, blindfolded myself and shoved my head in the fast freezer. This has all been to the delight of the children who think that emerging with a bag of Tesco peas wrapped round my face is the best thing they have seen me do since that time I fell down the quarry. I'm telling them that if they do not shut up with the hilarity noise, their next stop may be Patio Junction.

This is all I can do, and think about. The headache. One in a series of many mutant brainthumps over the last ten years, and they don't get any less frequent. Be warned, you bright young childwithouters: headaches become progressively worse after children. I am absolutely sure of that. If you are like me, they may be so horrible that DIY trepanning with a hand drill seems like a reasonable thing to do. (That is on the headache, not the child.)

I could go on, and think about everything that's broken down with this soontodeathbed body since kids were untimely ripped out of it. Maybe the fact that I can still stand upright is a marvel. I could reflect on the stomach wound, the kidney and liver malfunction, the wobbly knee, creaking joints, cricked neck and the pain in the arse thanks to a passion for Thomas the Tank and all his little chums with their pointy steam nozzles congregating round the sofa.

Come to think of it, I may as well use this blog to upload a list of medical ailments and broadcast them to the entire world. It will save time later when my NHS records are left on the 18.45 out of Watford.

In which consideration, I may as well add that the results from the scanner up the doodah have still not come back despite being told it only takes ten days to know whether I have hours to live.

But for the moment I need to lie down and calmly contemplate the medical options.

Maybe the headache is caused by kids screaming eee-eeee-eee, or the stress of not moving anywhere despite clearing out the front room, or the delightful bulldozing hormones that routinely knock down and crush fragrant and delicate ladies like myself, or the fact that I got less than six hours sleep last night thanks to worrying about everything, or the consumption of a tincture involving red and white wine, or the most obvious and rational answer: the incurable brain tumour and the flesh eating bacteria combined. I am sure Dr Internet will support me on that one.

So play the La's. I definitely want those. And Talking Heads, the Stranglers and, go on then, you twisted my arm. Dress me in the coffin in black eyeliner and goth boots and play a bit of the Cure.