Tuesday 5th April 2011
EACH day now takes me a step closer to the check-out.
It would be a good thing, methinks, if a palimpsest was etched on each of these remaining days: sixty-sharpened pencils; the recognition of proximities; a saunter down aisles and up yours; a journeyman’s journal, signifying nothing.
Blogging is not me – such an unseemly, modern conceit that squeezes writers into tracksuits, sees us pounding through rain-sodden paragraphs, word-counting stop-watches on our wrists, sweaty with aphorisms, panting with deadlines. Come off it. Where are the ash-trays, the mugs of stale coffee, the frustrations and frowns, the irritations of the colon?
Sod it. Better to write and not be read than not write and wake up dead.
(Surveillance records my browsing shelves for yesterday’s tidbits and today’s special offers. I wonder if they wonder if I’m a shoplifter, for I am both dilatory and distracted. But this is my outlet, not theirs. I am citizen not consumer, passenger not customer.)
Since financial wealth could stretch to infinity, it cannot be valued. Let us measure instead the pretty pictures of mortality. Tot up the minutes of pleasure and leisure. These are your profit. Set against them the traffic tailbacks, Post Office queues and afternoons lost in drudgery. For how long each day are you content, fulfilled, happy doing what you are doing? Count not the coins, but the hours per week you take home.
It is time to declare a new global currency. Time.
(When I unfold the rudiments of this philosophy to Liz on the tobacco counter, she sees not an influential visionary whose conclusions will revolutionise lives everywhere, but just another chuntering pensioner desperate for company. The staff have training days for that sort of thing.)
But this is my weblog and here nobody can stop me!
Oh… and I will eke out an exact 2011 characters per entry, reflecting the age. Next January, therefore, the index-linked allowance will give me a small opportunity for growth.
If I’m still here, that is.