Five o'clock in the morning and it looks like it's going to be another sleepless night.

Yes, you're right.

That is part of the bastardised lyrics to Crystal Gales.

Don't it make my brown eyes blue?

No, you've been talking in your sleep.

Excuse my whimsy, but it is 5 a.m. in the morning at Austin, Texas, airport on route to Dallas.

Dallas, a place that is featured heavily in my life without me ever having been there.

The first memory I can recall ever

was when I was four

and sitting at home watching the television

and kids programs were interrupted to say that

Kennedy had been shot.

Now it was Robert Kennedy because this was 1968, and I ran through to the kitchen,

ever the news hand and said to my mom, Kennedy's been shot, and she laughed at me.

She said, no, that took place 11 days after you were born.

It's just a rerun on the news.

It's not true.

And I said, no, no, come and look, Kennedy's been shot.

So although Bobby Kennedy was shot, I think, in Washington,

it all pertained back to the 22nd of November 9th, 63 in Dallas.

And that whole idea of been born 11 days after JFK was shot and then remembering Bobby Kennedy's

murder and running through to my mum plus the fact that when the soap opera Dara Dallas was playing

...