I’ve nothing much to offer.

It would be remiss of me to let today pass without acknowledging David Bowie. So weird hey? You know when artists, singers, actors and folk like that die, you sort of go, “That’s really sad…” but you kind of get on with things. But there are a handful of these deaths that really set you back a bit. Floor you even, because how can that possibly be?

Think Michael Hutchence, Lady Diana and Michael Jackson. You can recall where you were when you heard the news.

In 1980, I was travelling with my family coming back from a visit at Aunty Penny’s place in Canberra. I remember being so hungry I thought I was going to perish, so I started eating cardboard, pretending it was roast beef. I know. I was a strange child. Still kinda am.

Mum was listening to breaking news. She pulled over the lime green Toyota Hi-ace and alighted, while bursting into tears. John Lennon had been murdered. I had no idea who he was, but I knew that he must had been a big deal.

David Bowie was to me what John Lennon was to Mum. I grew up listening to his velvet tones. I marvelled in his outrageous attire and I put on my red shoes and danced the blues.

Rest in Peace David Jones, you brilliant bastard you.