COULDN’T sleep, not at all, just a few blanked-out moments when the sense of nameless dread that often comes to me in the night faded temporarily away. It was just before dawn, only an hour so ago, when I finally slipped over the border into blank oblivion, but it was not to last. Turns out the possums had nominated just that moment to conduct an orgy on the tin roof of the garage, which is just beside my bedroom. I am quite used to the possums, who are much less annoying than the bogan sports buffs who live next door with their drunken father, and I probably would not have registered the commotion if it had not stirred my little cat. Sparkles was on the prowl, jumping around the bedroom, trying to figure out where the possum racket was coming from.
An inept jump from bed to table not only knocked over the half carafe of water I keep beside the pillow, it woke me with a soggy start. You can’t sleep in wet sheets, especially when you can barely get to sleep at all, so I was up in time to hear the magpies welcome the full light of day.
It was a beautiful sound, a warbling symphony, but the mood of cheerful resignation after an uncomfortable night did not last longer than it took me to log onto the internet and start reading the day’s news.
Now I’m angry, seething is a better word, and it is the same old sexism and veiled obscenity of the conservative string pullers that that has me steaming with fury.
I’m going to make a cup of tea and toast some bread, feed Sparkles and then I’ll be back to dissect the filthy, sexism of the NSW conservatives as they gloat over the imminent Murdoch-assisted demise of a good woman, Kristina Keneally.