not a newsreader
I decided tonight that I'm not cut out to be a newsreader after all. Previously I've had narcissistic visions of being the centre of everyone's attention as I unfold the day's events to their listening ears. My inflection emphasises exactly the right syllables, my tone is professional and detached when necessary and sympathetic when the story calls for it. My hair is perfectly coifed and I'm wearing an attractive and expensive jacket with a stylish necklace and a pair of hidden but comfy tracksuit pants. I smile just the right amount and use my eyebrows and the tilt of the head to good effect. The consumate newsreader. (Mary Kostakidis eat your heart out!)
The only problem is that I cry at the drop of a hat. I'm not just talking crying at the sight of a sick or starving child - I'm talking serious tears at the sight of anything remotely moving. I mean, I cry in reality TV when someone sings beautifully or gets voted through to the next round. Turn on the news and I become a leaky tap. War, famine, hate, murder, greed - it is oh so ugly, and I cry for the state of the world we live in. How does God bear to look at what is going on?
Tonight was a case in point. Kim Beasley was voted out of Labour party leadership. Don't get me wrong here - I was no great lover of Kim Beasley. Most of what he said annoyed me (actually the way he said it was most annoying) and I agree Labour needed a change. I might even vote for them now! But how ignominious to be voted out in such a way. After all the years of passionate service, and all the days of posturing - he's out. And then his brother dies. How awful. What a completely horrible day it must have been for him.
So I cried. I think even Mary Kostakidis evidenced some moisture in the corner of her eye, but she soldiered on with the next anchor story - while I wiped tears from my cheeks and sniffled loudly.
No- sigh - newsreading is not for me! There's another dream layed to rest. All of a sudden I'm figuring out who I am better than ever before. Or at least who I'm not!
(On the spider front - I've gotten over the lovey dovey stuff, and no more innocent torture. Death is on the cards for any eight legged creature that crosses my path. Frank killed a 2cm White Tail spider in our bedroom on Saturday morning. Yikes! Apparently it is bacteria or fungus on your arm that produces the terrible ulcer, not the White Tail's bight. I guess that is a comfort! If you happen to be bitten anyway)