IT'S A RIGHT OLD BASTARD IS TIME

It’s been a lean time of late on the writing front. I always maintained I’d push out at least one tasty literary morsel a week, that no matter the pressures of middle aged penance, staring into the abyss of my own mortality, I’d still manage to show up on the page with a certain bran flake regularity.

Now look at me.

My blog entries, while self limited to a mere 350 words, are barely trickling in. Subject matter is hard to come by and sometimes as thin as a comb over. And my Mojo needs the kind of greasing reserved for head gaskets or women who wrestle for fun.

What’s gone wrong here?

When I was a nipper I vowed never to let life get the better of me. It seemed such an easy thing to do. Stay ahead of the game (whatever that was), don’t lose touch with the important things (like writing), and always make time the slave that bows to your command and not the other way round. Ah, the exuberance of youth.

And then the adult stuff happens.

You join the body corporate.

You get a Woolworths card.

You buy a house and fill it with shit.

And the time you thought you had in such abundance suddenly dwindles.

Now, if you’re reading this and you still think you have all the time in the world to do the things you want to do then I suggest you tread carefully. Time is a monster, a beautiful monster indeed but a monster no less. Its modus operandi is to sneak up when you’re not paying attention and then mug you. It’s like when you’re young, time seems so sedate, ambling along somewhere in the distance but turn your back and it picks up a steroid pumping cheetah sprint, and before you know, it’s there in your face, waving an empty hourglass that looks remarkably like yours.

It’s a right old bastard is time, but what you gonna do?

My suggestion is don’t panic.

Never panic. There’s no time for it.

Rather get cracking on whatever it is you seem to be putting off for later because if you don’t, you won’t. And wouldn’t that just be such a waste of time.