You are sneaky and stealthy and you never get caught. You live in my house but I never actually see you. Every morning I wake up with a fresh, new delivery of time.
24 hours, 1,440 minutes, 86,400 seconds.
I spend my day trying to escape you but you are quick and clever, snatching minutes here, seconds there, stuffing them into your swag bag and rubbing your hands with joy.
You are not random in your thieving. You don’t snatch hours when the mood takes you, the police would not call you an opportunist. No, the time you take is only the time that is precious to me.
You take the time that I could use to phone a friend but leave the time to clean the bathroom.
You take the time when I could sit chat to my children but leave the time that I am working late in the office.
You are never happier than when you have snaffled the time it takes to read the Sunday papers, but you turn up your criminal nose at the time used to tackle the ironing mountain.
I have spent most of my adult life trying to catch you. If I knew how to do so I could share it with the world and be richer than the richest gazillionaire.
Sometimes I can hide from you, just for a while. I’m doing it now, hunched over my laptop looking over my shoulder, listening for your footsteps.
Blogging time is one of your most favourite hauls. Your clock shaped lock-up must be full to bursting of half-baked posts and un-finished articles.
If you ever feel like a change of MO, please feel free. The insomnia hours from 3am are yours for the taking, I’ll happily look the other way. Fancy that time I’m doing my accounts? Fill your boots.
In the meantime, watch your back. I’ll never stop hunting you down Mr Time Thief. This is war.