This was absolutely the worst Midsummer Eve ever – just imagine getting all dressed up in your best summer dress and sandals to take part in a grand show, and then what happens? You get to see the show being taped and it, pardon the expression, stinks. Our little scatterbrain was all over the place, pretending to conduct interviews, and when it’s finally over and you sigh with relief, and have a little champagne to celebrate that you’re still alive, that’s when all hell breaks loose! I’ve never been party to such machinations in all my life – it was impossible to get any sleep and people were shouting up a storm, but I swear I didn’t hear a gunshot . . .That’s right, my dear readers, I was caught in the midst of what the hyenas here at the paper refer to as the Midsummer Murder. Michelle Carlsson was shot in a car that was parked under my bedroom window, imagine that. Not that I know what she was doing in that car anyway, maybe she was planning to leave – even though she had no business driving, considering the amounts I saw her drink that evening.
