I hate this migraine. It’s dragging into its second week, and I’m falling behind on everything. I’m still ahead on Gateau Method posts—only just—but I’m struggling with everything else.

Some people find me forbidding at the best of times, but these past few days, well—picture Frank Langella with a couple of weeks’ beard, playing the lead role in an André the Giant biopic. A casual glance was enough to resolve my first encounter with Dane, our neighbour-to-be. I can see why he’d creep Mim out, but the guy’s at worst seriously small-fry, without the initiative to turn it into a life of petty crime—the kind of pond-scum whose day consists of bad, homegrown riffs on his two-stringed guitar, sandwiched in between cut-price cigarettes and panty-raids of opportunity.

Wow. He’s probably nowhere near that bad, just lonely and poorly socialised. I feel like a cheap Raymond Chandler knockoff now.

The smallest things are suddenly jarring. Yesterday’s visit to Carpet Court played out in three-minute stretches, thanks to a stomach-churning mix of poor ventilation and vinyl outgassing. I got five minutes into the premiere of the V remake tonight before flicking channel; television is a troubling cacophony of over-stimulus and hucksterism.

It’s weird, though, what soothes my migraine. I can’t take aspirin or ibuprofen, and panadeine just inflames my liver. But old Ancient Warfare podcasts and Älymystö’s Atomgrad seem to melt away the hurt.

Finnish industrial ambient noise—for the temporary relief of pain. Odd.