Never the right time

I write, very often, about times past. I write about my thoughts and my links to 1642 and the early part of the Seventeenth Century. This, of course may mean that I have links in the latter part of the Sixteenth Century as well, depending on how I am linked to the period. And, of course, I could also have links to the latter part of the Seventeenth Century too, but this doesn’t have as much of a pull on me as the earlier years do.

I occasionally write about times yet to be. Glimpses of a far flung future, or hopes and dreams of a future that is possible, probable, and all other descriptions in between.

And, I write, quite a lot of the time, about the present. The now. The weather. The day I’ve had / am having. The importance of living in the now, feeling good now, enjoying now, and so on.

I’ve always had a problem with time. Not so much of a problem that it bothers me, I have to add, but an odd problem never the less.

In fact, I love time. I love finding out about facts from years ago. I love reading about people, places, discoveries, civilisations, buildings, myths, legends, and technological advancements that wouldn’t have got us to our now, if they hadn’t been as advanced as they were back then.

My problem with time is that I seem to exist in a multitude of different time zones. Each one slightly out of synch to the zone it is adjacent to, or just outside of, the current zone I am currently in.

Now, when I’m in work, I tend to ‘zone out’, but this is a completely different zone entirely. Sometimes, I find myself in a whole different dimension when I zone out at work. I have glimpses of different worlds, different experiences, and different streams of existence when I’m in this zone, but that is a zone in a different place.

I’m writing today about the zones in different times that I exist in – and not back in the Seventeenth Century or far flung future either: the now.

My alarm clock is always two minutes slow, so that means that I actually get up two minutes later than I think I am getting up. Two minutes isn’t such a big deal in the grand scheme of things, especially in the eternal infinity of the Universe, but an extra two minutes when I’m having the most delightful of sleeps makes all the difference to me.

On the landing in Aquatom Mansion, I have a wall clock which is five minutes slow. So, from the bedroom to the landing, I jump forward to being in a time zone seven minutes later than what it actually is. But do I? Remember – my alarm was two minutes slow, the landing clock five minutes slow, so the difference between these two timepieces is three minutes. Where I think I’m hovering some seven minutes out of time, I’m actually only three minutes adrift. See what I mean? I’m already in several time zones at once. Who says time travel isn’t possible?

OK. Slightly later, I’m ready for going to work. When I leave the Mansion, I am on natural time. Nothing to tell me what time is currently being displayed on the dial, face, readout, shadow or whatever else can be used to tell the time, I’m just ‘in the now’.

I get into my car, and this is when time travel really steps up a gear! The clock in my car is set at such a bizarre time I can only describe it as three hours slow and ten minutes fast. It’s a lot easier than working out what the time actually is when I say to myself that it is two hours and fifty minutes slow. In natural time, at 8am, my car will tell me that it is 5.10am. And before you ask why don’t I set the time in my car – I try – I really do – but it has none of it. It always sets to three hours slow and ten minutes fast. It’s a digital clock. Electrical. And who do I know who likes to play with my electrical items? Dot. My ghostly visitor, that’s who. (Not that I blame Dot, you understand, but it is a good a reason as any.)

Usually, whether I’m two minutes, three minutes, five minutes, seven minutes, ten minutes or two or three hours out, I manage to get to where I need to be either early, or on time. Which isn’t that bad, all things considered!