The end of time

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I visited a local beach last Sunday. I’m not a beach person and since our furry friends moved on to doggy heaven there hasn’t been much cause to frequent their happy walking grounds. Also, I gave up fishing years ago, so there’s even less reason to visit a beach. On leaving the carpark, I noticed a broken wall clock lying next to a refuse bin, put there for the benefit of beach goers. (The bin, that is, not the clock.)

At first, I wondered why anyone would bring a broken wall clock to the beach. It’s not as if you’ll be able to time your walk. Then, with some annoyance, I wondered why the rejected time piece had been chucked next to the bin, rather than placed inside it.

Walking along the beach, wishing I‘d chosen low tide so I didn’t have to walk in the soft, loose sand on the dunes, I got to thinking about time. It’s something which only happens once in your life and when it’s gone, it’s gone. It makes doing nothing a deplorable exercise, unless you can maintain that when you look as if you’re doing nothing, you’re actually meditating or thinking. Or following a higher pursuit, whatever that may be.

When I was employed, either by myself or someone happy to pay over the top for my services, time was always a precious commodity. I was good at managing my time. I never missed a deadline, except while I worked for an IT company who sold vapourware by the hour. Yet, I ran out of time almost every day – making for very long working hours. That’s also not true – the hours stayed the same, just 60 minutes in each, but there were more hours in my working day than I preferred. After retirement, however, many people want to know what I do with all my free time. I can’t answer them because I don’t seem to have much free time.

I mean, I have to make time to do Sudoku.