The first item that morning was about the sudden and unexpected death of the previous newsreader the night before, but no one really believed it.  They believed that she was dead but they did not believe it had happened the way they said.  And then it cut back to the studio and we saw the replacement newsreader, who was almost an exact replica, only slightly prettier.  And it felt like there should be somewhere for everyone to go so that they could talk to each other and say that they had noticed this thing, to feel better about it and maybe even do something.  Maybe get together and complain to the television station, or round up a protest in the name of the old newsreader and some kind of truth, ask some questions of the authorities.  But it felt like it was a time in which protesting wouldn’t do any good – it had begun to feel like a time in which everyone was too busy making their own noise to listen to anyone else.  So we got on with eating breakfast.  The new newsreader was wrapping up the programme now, moving her slightly-superior lips as she formed words, coaxing us all forward into a never-ending time of escalating expectations, futureproof progress and unquestionable perfection.


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