I spent almost 14 hours yesterday doing absolutely nothing. I almost had to teach myself how to walk again.
It was in the plan. One day of holiday where I suck it up and force myself to be still and alone. I’m sick of myself now, which means I can tackle SARS today.

All this immobileness is for good cause, I declare. No I wasn’t completely immovable or horizontal in the sexual sense, but was sort of slouched at a 65 degree angle, glued by eyeballs to the television, and glued by derriere to the couch.
Well, I got up once or twice to get Oros and snack absent-mindedly from the refrigerator.

I didn’t change the channel from 52 (Sky News) for even two and a half seconds.
I’m following the Ipswich prostitute murder case so closely, I didn’t care if they kept on repeating when no new evidence was found, “Breaking News, this is Crispin Pemberton-Pigley reporting from Harwichley Mallet: The police still only have two suspects. We’ll rerun the press conference again, and then show you a map of the area for your pleasure…oh wait it looks like they’re seizing a Ford Mondeo! Oh wait, that’s a cop car just reversing into the street….”

I fucking love Sky.
Like when JFK Junior died in the plane crash, I watched the entire day – never moving. (I lived in France, and it was way better than 1987 Murder She Wrote episodes with a French male voiceover posing as Jessica Fletcher. And Cabbot Cove was La Cabotte Cov. And besides, JFK Junior was a hot motherfucker- I grieved for days.) When the tsunami hit Thailand, I wasn’t stuck on CNN. I was addicted to Sky. When the World Trade Centre went down, I preferred Sky’s take on it. Sky is nothing short of fascinating.

Not to mention entertaining. They intersperse their stories with weather across the UK: “More rain in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, oh and in Wolverhampton….and also in Dover…in fact it’s going to be raining across Great Britain the entire weekend, even in Brighton, in case you were thinking of taking a picnic there anytime soon.” Then it’ll switch back to the murder scene in Trimley, where there’s a bird’s eye view of forensics combing the suspect’s garden and mini- pop up boxes of reporters interviewing other hookers in the area.
You can ask me anything about this case. The scene has unravelled before me nano-seconds after the reporters first got a new scoop, and verbalised this into a microphone across the world.

I should be there, bloody hell. Reporting on the western front of the depraved Jack the Ripper guy. I mean, I have the time right now. Well maybe not today, I have all sorts of coffee meetings going on, but you know, generally.