On losing time

Time is a strange beast. A weird, elastic shape-shifter that is never the same thing twice. Compare the hour you spend on the phone with someone whose voice feeds your soul to the hour between four and five on a Friday afternoon... But in the past year, I attempted to stretch the elastic past all realistic bounds, and would try, in a heady blend of optimism and fatalism, to cram far more into any given moment than was humanly possible. A single minute was wasted in which I was not involved in twelve tasks at once. This usually ended with the twang of aforementioned elastic giving way and bringing me back to earth with a sharp snap. And it wasn't always me in the firing line. Picture my weary husband waiting to eat a meal while I dash back into the kitchen to whip up one more thing, or my amazingly patient friend Amber shivering outside a cold cinema in Clapham. There are an overwhelming number of such scenes to view from the past year or so in my life, as the people around me were forced to wait for me to stop scampering around like a demented hare. And so this year, while I abhor the idea of New Year's resolutions and think they are as effective as diets (Just Don't Do It!), I am determined to address the problem of my Time-Losing. And under the tree this year, I found a lovely sparkly Fossil watch. I now sport with pride this ally in the war against myself and my irrational urge to fill every second with Things That Must Be Done For Me To Feel Better About Me. Of course, its quite amusingly ironic that the giver of this pretty trinket is my mother; the worst time-keeper I know.