Friday 26 June 2015

Reflections in front of a carriage clock


 

Image courtesy of farconville at
 FreeDigitalPhoto.net
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.