Monday, 4 April 2016

C is for Clock Watching

This is sometimes a pretty volatile household. We don't need to look too far for an argument and because we are both not backward in coming forward, the neighbours must sometimes wonder if something is gonna get broken - nah not me or him but something.

We mostly agree on the big stuff, like politics and almost on religion, although Stevie's views are not quite as extreme as mine, and generally on people, although we are happy enough to give plenty of lea way for each other's choice in playmates. We like the same sort of foods and fancy going to the same sort of places and care equally little about what other people think. But Time is too often our undoing!

The clock is my favourite piece of household equipment. It has driven me my whole life. From the beautiful marcasite  watch from Nanna that I took off carefully so I could dive up to my armpits into the enormous vats of coleslaw and mix up that hideous mayo when I worked at Coles - yeh the one some fucker took from the kitchen ledge and then laughed behind their hands as I cried at it's loss, to the stopwatch timings at swimming, I have always been aware of time.

I was not one of those fashionably late - read bloody rude, brides, and my classes knew that on the very rare occasions I was late, that there was an excellent reason, probably about them and possibly arguing in their corner with the principal. My classes ran to time and I might not have complained about the lack of air con - but I did, or the sweat stink of the carpet, but I did, or the general lack of equipment, but I did always insisted on an operational government issue clock.

I used to play and teach THEATRE SPORTS. These are Drama Games designed around impromptu story telling in teams of up to 4, a bit like 'Whose Line Is it Anyway' on the tellie, except the games are timed, 1, 2 and 4 minutes. A lot of people would not think it worth even starting on a story in only 1 minute, but you'd be surprised just how much you can cram into it.

If the clock says 9.20 and I'll think 9.30, my car clock is 30 minutes fast, but somehow I have convinced myself that it is only 20 minutes ahead.

I am never late.

If I am running even close to late, that means I am not gonna be 10 minutes early, I get that sick nauseous feeling in my guts and my colour wanes and a nervous sheen appears on my top lip. Now at least, with the advent of mobile talking devices, I can ring or text to give notice that I might be running late. Warnings of my possible lateness have often been received by people still washing the sleep from their eyes, prior to shitting and shaving.

Ok it's all a bit nuts, and pedantic and frantic and often stressful, especially when balanced against Stevie's 'whenever' approach. He was infamous for being late almost all his life. I reckon his pommie mates probably lied to him about departure times so he'd make the rugby tour bus. So now I should be pleased that it's only a few minutes.

He has definitely improved, and that ain't easy as we get older.

Just as well really cos he's running out of time to get it right.

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