Whose is this cool blue brain? Mine is red. Hot, burning, throbbing red.  Inside it hundreds or maybe thousands of migraines (I do not dare count) have hatched, thrived, and then departed. Like viviparous reptiles — crocodiles or rattlesnakes — these migraines are born fighting and clawing. From the moment of birth these savage creatures scratch and bite and pummel my brain with merciless ferocity until they get bored and depart.

       And yet my brain bears no sign of injury. There is no bruising. There are no red marks. No sign of scarring anywhere. Scans reveal a perfectly healthy organ. Were it to be cut open, in thin layers on one of those deli meat slicers used in autopsies, every section would be revealed as pristine. No clots, no smudges, no crumbly sections, black scabs or purple explosions. When gripped by the pain inflicted by these sharp-toothed and poisonous baby monsters, I feel that my entire head will surely explode with pressure. But there is not even a trace of discolouration, nothing to disfigure the creamy pale pink of those coiled tubes that form my brain. The baby monsters come and go without leaving a single shred of flesh, fragment of shell or trail of bloodstains.  I have no blood clot, no tumour. I emerge from the pain without the faintest sign of my suffering. How could my brain be immolated like this yet survive, without burns, punctures or swelling? My brain makes such a comprehensive recovery that it is almost like I have not, in fact, experienced this pain at all.

            So monstrous is this red-hot suffering, and yet so lacking in evidence, that it is easy to deny the experience, to believe it will never, ever, happen again. And it seems that my brain colludes in this preposterous denial, this massive corporeal cover-up, this comprehensive fraud on a scale so mighty it should be investigated by the correct authorities. I should send in Interpol or ASIC. But so desperate is my desire never to suffer a single more migraine, that I deny it too. When the police come knocking, I slam the door.  I refuse to admit the prospect of the next and the next migraine. Lying even to myself, I pretend that my brain is cool blue instead, and have done so for my entire life.