The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read.

Here we have Geilston Bay just this very morning. It is a pleasant morning, and the news that Madonna and her husband are fighting has done little to dampen our spirits here in Tasmania. If it did, I guess we could turn to Paul McCartney’s new tale of love for consolation. Likewise, the fact that Elton John had a dig at Lily Allen, and that Lily Allen (a few sheets to the wind, I’d say) had a go back at an awards ceremony somewhere not here overnight didn’t rock our boat too much. Nor did Brendan Fevola’s ‘mad Monday’ appearance in a pink nightie and monster dildo worry us. And although I have some sympathy for David Duchovny’s recent ‘illness’ (too much sex? The poor, wretched bugger!), I’m happy to leave him to it. I feel no need to comment on Bristol Palin’s luck, let alone her ‘proud redneck’ lover. I’ll be honest with you too, the next time that I hear Stephanie Rice and Eamon Sullivan, I’m kind of hoping that it will involve crocodiles. The same goes for you, Amy Winehouse. So you’ve been feeling a bit poorly, have you? Anyway, who are you again and why am I supposed to care? When Ms Winehouse croaks, maybe the obituary will inform me. You see, none of this is any of my business, and I couldn’t actually care less.

However, the good folks of the morning news obviously felt that these earth shattering events worthy of news headlines. So Henry and I are now much more informed on these profound matters. Oh, and I know that Princess Mary is Tasmanian at all, and she does seem pleasant enough, but I don’t need a news flash every time that she farts.