Whimsical Musings of a Loon

Deviate outwards, of the sphere, Part inevitable, causes fear. Amble past, rows of glassy Rectangled puzzles, in their chassis. Time itself she cannot postpone, She knows that once, she'd have known. A forlorn object on the shop flaw: The old woman, in the TV store. Phosphorescent and shiny, they overwhelm, Her clockwork dark, in a cybernated realm.

Twenty four years ago this month, I was sat in the back living room of my childhood home watching the TV. It was early tea-time, just having got back from school. I was filling my ruddy pouches with ribena and crumpets. This scene wasn't a rarity, given how many hours I used to spend with my eyes attached to the screen by visual telebox adhesive, watching Australian soap operas, learning and mimicking the accents to annoy my siblings with. But what was about to happen in front of my eyes was one of my earliest and most vivid childhood memories, and one that has haunted me ever since. There came a sudden change in tone by the presenter, and the BBC kids' show Newsround - one of the main staples of my early televisual diet - appeared with breaking news. I can still hear the tinny, 1980s retro dot-dash-theme tune that sounded like it was created on a fisherprice keyboard accompanied with bongo drums. The Space Shuttle appeared on the screen. It was a familiar sight of sorts. For