The phone repeatedly murmured in alert, desperate for some attention. Birmo opened an eye and peered out from beneath the warm comfort of his doona.
It was situated well beyond arms reach on the inconvenient side of the bedside table. It meant he'd have to move and destroy the bubble of warmth he'd craftily shaped for himself throughout the night.
As he lay there motionless trying to ignore it, he tossed up writing about the X-Files or killer space robots for his regular Brisbane Times column.
The phone's vibrations became increasingly incessant. Reality finally clutched at his brain like a cold taloned hand.
It was Monday and this was Queensland. Something was up.
Instinct told him that something monumentally stupid had happened.The type of stupid that could only have been orchestrated by one man. The type of stupid that would allow his column to write itself.
Campbell Newman.
He opened his other eye.
