So I’m sitting here feeling about as uninspired as it’s possible to be without lapsing into catatonia, and you’re asking what inspires me.
All I can see when I look around is death, doom, disaster, mismanagement, corruption, bomb strikes, football and sex – as in who’s getting it or not getting it with whom, where, why, and the more sordidly inappropriate the better. So storylines that don’t revolve around some form of moral or physical chaos begin to look like fairytales, which I was never hooked on even as a child. ‘Happily ever after’ back then smacked of the princess becoming a domestic goddess, and I couldn’t imagine anything more deathly boring, although I never said, not wanting to appear unnatural. To the modern wannabe princess, I guess it means diamonds, yachts, A-listing, jet setting, hobnobbing with the rich and famous and as much cosmetic surgery as you fancy – not that I’m a cynic or anything.
Today’s headline on my homepage says Butt lifts, fame and knife fights. The photo of the two erstwhile reality ‘stars’ accompanying this gem shows two women flaunting more silicone and Botox than the human body was designed to accommodate, and my immediate question would be What were they thinking‽ But as I’ll never be able to get inside their well-moisturised skins to understand them, such is the chasm between us, they don’t stir in me the irresistible urge to weave them into the next Great Australian Novel.
Neither does the teenage girl posing with the endangered African mammals she managed to bag on a hunting trip in Zimbabwe.
Maybe I’m just too old appreciate the rambunctious energy and variety of modern living. I’m usually inspired by what makes people tick, but it’s all starting to sound a bit tinny.