72 Times

This is the 72nd time I have done this.

Sometime between the hours of 8.30pm and 10.30pm GMT, while it is still Sunday on the bulk of this dark sphere, I sit with a coffee and I listen to the birds (even now, one squawked overhead) as the sun rises over Adelaide, my little city.

I sit, around this time and I drink my coffee and I turn my mind towards the question of what I should write about. In truth, the content here doesn’t really matter. It’s simply a deal I have made with myself: no matter what else is going on, I will try to find some words on Monday.

And finding words isn’t hard, I mean, they are everywhere. I’m typing this with “fingers”–that is a word. I’m on a “computer”–that is a word. Here, in Australia, it is Monday; while much of the rest of the world is still lurching through Sunday, for us the future has already arrived.

Hah, I’m in the future. Of course, I’m not, not really. Although I suppose to my younger self this would be the future. And so if I were to look upon my current situation with the eyes of my younger self, then yes, I would be in the future.

But the days and hours of routine time, day-to-day time, international time zones and daylight savings and GMT as though there’s some Time God keeping Watch…


It’s Sunday. It’s Monday. It’s Monday. And so I tell myself I need to write. Something, anything, the content here doesn’t really matter. It’s simply a deal that I’ve made with myself.