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Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock… …
I sit alone in the corner of a room, mindful of the passing
seconds. Three months from now I will be 57; a year of existence for each of
the Heinz varieties. Well past my half century, 8 years from ‘pensioner’ status,
41 years beyond the age of legal consent for sexual shenanigans.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock… …
I’ve always had an aversion to time. Relentless, taunting
clocks spewing out their unsettling messages each time you glance into their
faces: another hour of humiliation to endure in the school woodwork class at
the mercy of a sadistic teacher; 45 minutes beyond the scheduled meeting time
at the bus-stop confirms she’s stood me up; only 10 minutes remaining in the
History exam and I’ve yet to start the final question; 11 hours into my wife’s
torturous labour and no sign of my son’s head.
Tick-tock, tick-tock… …
Yesterday I learnt of the sudden death of a longstanding friend.
He was my age – seven months younger, actually. Fifty-two-years ago we sat,
side-by-side, in the infant class on our first day at school, flushed pink with
a combination of excitement and fear. Yet now he's gone, and each tick and tock proclaims I, too,
am one second closer to nothingness, as Time inexorably inhales my juices,
drying me up, edging me closer to that arid shell on the mortuary slab.
Tick-tock.
Tick-tock.
AND THAT IS WHY … …
I will book the flight to visit my only brother in the
Bahamas, rather than just talking about it
Tick-tock, tick-tock… …
I will start to write that block-buster novel I’ve been pondering
on for over a decade
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock… …
I will invite my wonderful son over for a couple of bottles
of Abbott’s ale while we listen to, and discuss, our favourite music. And take
my beautiful daughter to a Mexican restaurant to catch up on her university
experiences while imbibing chicken fajitas and a cool drop of Corona Extra
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock… …
And tonight I’ll surprise Mrs Jones by preparing a meal of
fillet steak, swilled down with a Spanish Rioja. We’ll talk, and reminisce,
about our 34 joyful years together. After which I’ll lift my lady off her feet
– a (little) bit like the iconic scene from An Officer and a Gentleman – carry
her to bed, and pound her into multiple-orgasmic ecstasy. (Okay, just one
orgasm, if I’m on form – and my lumbago doesn’t flare up while I’m in full
piston-like flow – but it will be high quality).
Because, after all, we need to grasp each fucking tick and
each fucking tock as if it’s our last.
