My mother used to live by the clock and we fell into step behind her. More recently there's been some slackening. It's really very nice to not have to keep hitting the mark- not to have to get up at 7.15 and then deliver my mother to the breakfast table at 8.00. We haven't gone mad- we still get up early- but we're no longer timebound. I like clocks; I like having them around, with their smiling faces and friendly voices, but I resent having them tell me what to do. It's a very long time since I last wore a watch.
I pick a volume of my paper journal off the kitchen floor- where the tide of our removals has dumped it. There's a marker at a conversation I had with my father in October '02. He asks me if I am satisfied with my life so far and I say I am because it has been interesting. I should have thrown the question back at him, shouldn't I? A month later he was dead.