Damn the journalists, full steam ahead

The radio comes on in my bedroom at 6am.

It usually takes 30 minutes before the irritating sound of BBC 4 finally moves me to haul my carcass out of bed. Lately it’s been only 20 minutes, as I’m now having to chauffeur one offspring unit to a new school, which calls for a 10-minute sleep-in deficit. (Growl)

This morning, it only took 15 minutes.

Cause I was mad at the flippin’ radio.

Doom. Gloom. The markets have fallen again. Politicians wringing their hands and covering their backsides. Commentators pessimistic about the economic data, short-term and long-term. All of them hopeless, and focussed on money, money, money.

Oh shut up, the bunch of you.

It actually got me so ticked off, even in my morning-hazed state, that I got up 5 minutes early and turned the {insert your own adjective} radio off.

Facts and commentary without any hope are useless. Better to just let the tidal wave strike and kill without warning.

When the voices talking at you have so little hope themselves that they have none to offer you . . .

Turn them off. Go push some weights. Buy your wife some flowers. Splurge on a more-expensive-than-usual java from Starbucks. Do anything positive that says, I’m in charge, and your hopeless little thinking isn’t going to ruin my day.

You can knock me down, but you can’t knock me out.

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