I could Kill Time.
Oh, hang on, isn't that what we do when we don't like the time we're in?
Certainly used to when the children were tiny and walks took HOURS AND HOURS of Very Slow Walking, followed by walking BACK to where we already had been, to look closely at a piece of Mud. Or when we would drop stones into the stream and watch the splash. And do it again. And again.
But it killed the time between Breakfast and Elevenses. So that was good.
What a terrible thing to do.
And yet I have killed more time than you've had Hot Dinners. Truly. I am an Artiste Supreme in the sport of Tuer Le Temps. (That's 'Killing Time' in French! Google translator is enormous fun, you can waste HOURS on it).
Give me some time and I used to slaughter it. Blast the poor bastard to death. Bang. Time gone.
And in those long, long days of babyhood, when each hour seemed like a day, killing time seemed like a terribly good idea.
What I didn't know was that it would become a habit.
And I continued to kill time like it was a rather unpleasant insect to be dealt with. Squashed. Finished with.
Day over. Bed. Brilliant.
Now is Different.
Time is running away with me like a horse without a rider. And a wasp stuck to its arse. No sooner have I had my breakfast and cleaned my teeth than it's time for bed. I just about have enough hours to feed everyone, and get to Tesco. Then BANG! Time for the next day.
Time has decided to RIP through my days. Never slowing. Treating each moment like a race.
Just when I needed time to slow. Just when I wanted to savour each moment, try something new, go somewhere different. Just when I thought how nice it was to stand and stare. Just when I grew up.
Time decides to GALLOP.
I could Kill time.
But I won't. I'll savour it. If the bugger will stand still for long enough for me to grab it and hold it fast.
Hah! As if.