I couldn’t say which direction the time-slip takes but it seems to be constant in number–it feels like I’m slipping (backwards or forwards) about three hours a day. Could be that it’s oscillating between one state and the other, which would be nice.
Not that it feels unpleasant in any way. It’s rather like living in one of those strange old SF stories where the narrator is caught off to the side of his world and time, acting as an asynchronous observer. Not quite as old SF as H.G. Wells, more like the products of one of Poul Anderson’s tribe.
Astounding.
Graham was truly pleased to hear that our little silver Ford had passed the MOT test with flying colours. Not simply because it’s a relatively inexpensive operation, and indicating the unlikelihood of any imminent outlays, but because it means we’ve done everything we can to keep the car in good order, and safe. Graham doesn’t drive but he has taken my approach to car ownership very much to heart: ”If you can’t keep your vehicle in good order you ought not to be driving.”
I’ve been giving some thought to that recently. Driving or not driving, that is. Wondering, as you do, just how much longer I’ll be able to drive, and how on earth I shall manage when the time comes to hand in my trusty little buggy.
Well, I’ve come to the conclusion that this is defeatist thinking. The only way they’re going to get my car off of me is over my cold dead body. Or however the expression goes.
My car is my independence. Normal times it operates in the small world I occupy but when I’m feeling good, and have the need, it is there, smug and happy, ready to take me off anywhere, anywhen.
I refuse to slip into the mindset where I’m ready to accept that essential elements of my life may fall away, leaving me cold and drooling, granny-farm material, waiting for my call.
Hey ho. The things you think about when you’re home alone.
