Let’s talk about things we don’t do. Not things we don’t want to do – let’s not talk about those, though if we contemplate the whys and why-nots we might surprise ourselves and change our minds. I must make a note to contemplate these things more. I make a lot of mental notes to do things, but they remain undone.
It’s not laziness. I’ve devoted myself to enough impossible projects enough times to know that. It’s not that there isn’t time, because we all know that the less time we have, the more we get done, and anyway, if I am abundant in anything, that thing is hours in the day.
Could it be that we’ve subconsciously Marie Kondoed some things out of our lives because they’re bad for the soul? And if so, does that mean no more ironing, ever?
Where I live now, there’s a mantelpiece clock that chimes on the quarter hour. It can intimidate or comfort, because time is like that. Bong. Another fifteen-minute section gone.
I haven’t owned a watch since 2008, when I retired (on health grounds – I wasn’t that old, then). I had always removed it the moment I got home, because it irritated my wrist to be marking time on my own time.
I don’t remember that last watch, or my first for that matter. But I do remember my first clock. Rigid yellow plastic with red pull-out tabs. An educational toy, or instrument of torture, dreaded daily.
Often since then I’ve failed wilfully to replace batteries and taken the consequences, surprisingly few. Get thee behind me, time.
And you see, it has, and it will. Ever faster, because time is like that.