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I can't sleep.

The anxiety is killing me.

I am full of anticipation. So much so that, despite knowing it was a free event, I actually bought a "ticket" to the parade from an unscrupulous man in Hosier Lane - just to be safe.

I lay in bed, dying. The doctors say I have less than 24 hours to live. The disease is unknown, but they think it's linked to me shaking hands with Jack Watts. I don't understand the mechanics of this disease. All I can hear is the flutter of commotion and various Fremantle melts from the week before.

And yet - despite my terminal condition - one thing, and one thing only, consumes my mind.

Will he, or won't he?