morning head: Wednesday, 8th July, 2015.
I went to sleep with screen blindness, brain a melatonin-starved little raisin, shrivelled and dry.
I am torn from strange dreaming by the cacophonous warbling of Katy Perry, a rude awakening from shirt-fronting speeches by front-bench ministers who talk the talk then toe the line. The radio has been whispering in my ear for nearly an hour and a half.
There is a reason my wireless is set almost exclusively to news radio. Not because I have any particular love of listening to bullshit political rhetoric, but because I have no interest in being subjected to the likes of Ms. Perry. Apparently, not even Radio National is safe.
I note, however, that she is fighting to buy the convent out from under a bunch of nuns in Los Angeles. She likes the building is seems. And has the support of the Arch[bishop/deacon/etc]. No prizes for guessing how she got him on board.