My wisdom tooth wouldn't have been so bad if my designer wasn't an insomniac and a psychic.
So far, all my wisdom teeth have emerged naturally and painlessly, like a scientologist miracle birthing.
But this last one is heavy going, leaving my gum as inflamed as a Danish Imam with a copy of Asterix meets Mohammed.
The pain is so bad it's weaned me off my sleeping pills. You see, the problem with my sleeping pills is that they'd wake me up at 4am for a quarter of an hour. Exactly.
At the moment it's just dead time, but I'm sure in a future release they'll fill it with adverts.
Sadly, 4am turns out to be the exact time when my bedtime ibuprofen wears off, leaving my wisdom tooth at its sharpest.
So, between 3 and 5 (when the new painkillers start to take effect), my dreams are predictably tortured.
The reason I'm telling you this is to explain the plight of my psychic designer, trying to sleep in the next room.
"Your fear woke me up," he scowled the next morning. "Waves of panic and pain coming through the walls. Couldn't get a wink of sleep. I tried sending thoughts of spiders back, but it didn't shut you up."