Calling London...

I turned the television off at 8.15pm last night. The sensationalist drivel churned out by our commercial networks making my stomach churn and bubble with nausea and frustration.

Conclusions being made, inferences drawn a mere ten minutes into the coverage about the London attacks; pertaining who was responsible despite the “evidence” being tenuous at best.

People were already assuming who were behind this tragic event, but for the journalists to be making such statements with very little evidence made me sick to the pit of my stomach.

I listen to my colleagues chat at length about this event, and I feel sickened as they try to one-up themselves as to who knows more information than whom. Injuries quoted, casualties mentioned, knowledge of Australian nationals in London at this moment, and figures of death…

Vans of white with lights were all I could see from the television last night. Red trucks careened through tight English streets, and people traumatised by the horror they’ve witnessed first hand. Looking into the eyes of a person who has seen hell on their doorstep, but hearing the idiocy trumpeted by the moronic box has a surreal ridiculousness.

With all the pain this event has caused, and for all the suffering being endured, I can only sit and tap away the words in my head. I sicken me.

These people are real. They are brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers. And all we can do is stand around with our coffee cups and regale others with the regurgitation from our local media outlets.

It’s absurd. It’s idiotic. It’s inane.

My thoughts go out to those who were genuinely affected by the events in London. I can say nothing to soothe. Do nothing. Feel nothing.

I know that people grieving sometimes like to be left alone. So I will turn off the television, silence my radio, and light a candle.

Although I don't know you, I am thinking of you.