"Billie Jean Is Not My Lover..."

So Michael Jackson is gone.  G.O.N.E.

Found this out last night as I was stumbling into bed and was still digesting the news of former Charlies Angel 'Farrah Faucet' dying as well.  Very surreal.  Feels like a right of passage somehow....childhood stars drifting up up and away, reminding you of your own mortality and far-flung youth.

Of course to Egg, Michael Jackson doesn't really mean anything.  The only problem he has with the whole situation is that MJ was only 50 years old.  In Egg's brain this simply does not compute.  As far as he understands (and due in part to what I now realise was a very misjudged conversation he and I had some time ago) people live until they are 100 and then they die. Simple as that.

For a child already so sensitive to the nuances of life, it doesn't bear getting further into the whole mortality and afterlife idea as I know Egg will just run with it for weeks and weeks and not let up on the questions until he feels he is satisfied (which if his STILL current obsession with countries traveled to is any indication - could be a painfully loooooong time).

The last thing I want him doing is bluntly asking people who look middle-aged and beyond, whether they are going to die soon or not.  After all it wasn't that long ago that he cornered a kindly old lady in our dentist's waiting room and solemnly told her that she was supposed to be dead - simply because she had jokingly told Egg that she was 'One hundred years old' (sigh).  One of the many incidents I was pleased not to be witness to.

Dumpie came up to my bedroom last night in the wee hours, ascertained that his father was in absentia, and therefore took it upon himself as his God given right to take over the other side of the bed (and part of mine as well) by sprawling vertically across and jamming his fat little toes into my ribs all night. 

At some point he went down four flights of stairs in the pitch dark and poured himself some apple juice in three plastic cups, and brought them back upstairs again, positioning them on the bedside table so as to partake at various points throughout the night and morning when he so desired.

I of course was the conduit through which he satisfied his thirst, and was constantly prodded awake to grunts of, "Me want Appa juice Mama."  I felt like a glorified manservant.  At around 7am he decided that we had both had enough sleep and he peered up close to my face as he does and said, "Wakey-Wakey!" 

I wish I felt 'Wakey-Wakey'.  In fact I am decidedly feeling worn out, stressed and tired.  With a 'to-do list' longer than the illustrious Michael Jackson's string of hits, I simply don't know where to begin.

Hmmm...I wonder what the husband's doing right now?  Beer for breakfast?.....laying in a field somewhere in fancy dress?....Joining the hordes at Glastonbury in breaking out in spontaneous 'Billie Jean's'?  (as was conveyed in a late night text last night)...or perhaps holed up in his tent depressed because he misses his wife and family.

Uhhhh...yeah right :)