The news Michael Jackson had died was filtered through a tantalising dream of winning the lottery.
It came floating down the hallway on early morning radio and no-one was sure, but it seemed the King of Pop had popped his last pill.
I lay in bed crushed.
My dog was lying on my legs and I was on the verge of buying the world's supply of shiraz and sitting on the largest verandah in the universe forever to write poetry with my dogs at my feet, when Jacko reminded me it doesn't matter how much money you have _ it won't buy your childhood back.
Just like Jacko I...