Typing speed has slowed to approximately three words a minute. Must be the chill. Nothing to do with the pre-dawn state of my head. Or with the constant looking over my shoulder in dread of the wee man waking up.
Time is like a contact lens that has washed out in the swimming pool: Impossible to get hold of; Practically invisible. In fact, just give it up as lost, you’ll be less stressed. And while you’re at it, give up trying to fill it with so many things. Just. One. Thing. At. A. Time.
Trying to scale back the amount of stuff swirling around one’s brain is no easy task anymore. I’m often full of lamentations about the amount of reading I don’t do anymore, the loss of the endless nights of socialising, and long dope-addled summers of my relative youth, in which I achieved any amount of things (and nothings) on a regular basis.
Certainly, my inability to go to bed at midnight, read until half three, and get up in time to be at work by half six is somewhat diminished, in these days of daddyhood and greying hair. But it dawned on me the other day, that much more things were done in the days before the instant dopamine-gratification of social-media and smartphones.
My eyesight was better too.