Read my bumps, baby.

 Back in the NHSS. Lorraine is on. No subtitles here, just her shrill voice as she chats to someone in Cannes about Tom Cruise. "I'm 59," says Lorraine, "so...he looks really good." Next she's trying to make a survivor of the Manchester Arena Attack cry, by asking her if she is living her life now for her best friend who died. Lorraine specialises in leading questions, trailing her every utterance with "Do you think that?" and "You must be very, very emotional." At one points she declares "You were in a coma, for goodness sakes." I've never seen Lorraine in action before. She's cold reading like a fraudulent spiritualist. The only kind of spiritualist.    

I'm here to have my bumps read. My appointment is at ten past nine and it's ten past nine. There are about seven people here and none of us has been seen. But suddenly three are called at once. I may not be here too long. I hope that's not an ominous sentence. 

It's a week from the start of this headache. Today I forgot to take any pills before I set out, but the pain isn't too bad, occasional twinges at the top of my skull, a consistent ache at the base. A throbbing pulse. While the pain is a lot - a lot - more bearable than it was, there is still a foreign soreness in my head after a week. To quote Morrissey - a professional headache himself - something is squeezing my skull. 

I'm the last one here again. I'm feeling that familiar mix of exceptionalism and neglect. A childhood in a sentence. 

And then...I'm called. A nurse whispers my name and darts off, and I wander through a warren of corridors, until she beckons me into the MRI suite. I'm asked my name and address again, either to make sure I'm mentally competent to continue, or to ensure I'm not a chancer, nabbing those sweet free brain scans. The room seems circular and rather shabby, like a corn silo with a couple of million quids worth of "Photo-Me-Brain" equipment stored in it. 

I lie on a couch wrapped in cellophane and place my glasses on my chest. It's like being inserted into Hal from 2001. I shunt in and out and in again, like a shy lover's penis.  Inside is all Apple white, while an insidious band of black spins round to warm, industrial humming. I don't mind it in there. It's quite relaxing. 

And then I'm out, back in A&E to await my results. Lorraine is subtitled here. 

I wait two hours. I try to do some writing, but the words aren't really happening...my brain is busy doing other things. 

A doctor calls me, and I wander into an examination room. I'm trying to read her expression, as she's reading through a wad of notes and elegant portraits of the inside of my head. Nothing. They found nothing. I mean, they found the brain, a big, bouncing, healthy brain, without scars, tears, holes or ominous shadows. Whatever the pain is, it's not on the X Rays. I cross examine the doctor. What is it? This thing that's been in my head for a week? She doesn't know. Could be lots of things. Like what? Do you suffer from migraines? No. Could be a migraine? And can they last a week? Not really, no. Have you have a runny nose or a sore throat? I've had a sore throat, yes. Could be a viral infection. Are you drinking a lot of fluids, sleeping well? Yes. Oh. 

She doesn't know. I've spoken to three doctors and none of them know. But at least I'm not going to die of a massive, squatting pig of a brain tumor. In fact, over the last week, I've been given a pretty good bill of health. If it wasn't for the chronic pain I could run a mile. How do you feel now, she asks. Relieved, I say, I guess that's the best possible outcome isn't it? Great, she says, well enjoy the rest of the day. I'm going to go outside in the sunshine and eat an apple, I say, confusingly. She looks confused, until I thank her effusively and leave. 

Outside in the car park - it is a glorious sunny day - I ring Susan to tell her the good news. Then I walk back home, smelling the cut grass, drinking in the healing green, trying to get my taut, agonised shoulders below ear level. 

I see a postman wearing shorts who has a tattoo of Iggy Pop on his calf. Underneath is written "Mum". I think everything is finally going to be alright.