In search of lost time

I'm gonna try and be logical about this. I have a vague idea about what I wanna say but a relatively brief timeframe in which to express it. It's already gone 10 and the kitchen conspiracy stacks up against me yet again - plates, mess, disordine that seeps in from the maelstrom of smoke, dogshite and emotions outside. The door shakes as the tram rattles and squeals past, in pain almost, as it runs over an unsuspecting OAP, oaf, tramp or floosie.
I'm lying really, I have no idea what I want to say. A kind of belated diary entry. It's been over 20 years since I kept a diary in actual fact, that self-indulgent search for identity in the lonely pits of teenage terror. I don't even know what the fook that is supposed to mean.
Reach for your glass, I just have.
Time rattles on and my book drafts remain just that. Who's got the time to revisit old manuscripts written by a former self? We don't change that much from 18-20 onwards I guess but life gets in the way. The mind gets jaded, the memories fade, the indulgence of inadequate words becomes less tolerable. You write and rewrite some clown with a pen in his hand. Endlessly. I read some of that stuff and I think "Jeez, did I write that?". Some other stuff ain't bad, it's forgivable, even with the critical glance of the intervening years.
Now my brother has just texted me. It's taken days to organise a phone appointment. He's ringing in half an hour. Am I going to be free? I'll have to be. The nipper's birthday is coming up so he wants to know about presents. He's coming over and we don't know whether his hand luggage will be enough to fit everything in. There's a metaphor in their somewhere. Pay for a suitcase I'll say. Just to make sure.
Did I answer him? I scramble to the phone. Technology confirms I did. My short term memory is shot to fook. I repeat myself, I do something, I go back and check that I have. Like some old dozy bird. People joke that it's the onset of Alzheimer's. In the words of the late great Walter Matthau: "I fail to see the humour."
The minutes slip by. 22.22 and counting.
Is there any way to retrieve this time lost? The repetition of life that erases all before it. One day slips into another, the seasons slip by in a way that I thought was just poetic licence. It ain't. A dark, mind-boggling winter comes to an end with early evening light and some warmth. My nose clears after 3 months, miraculously, almost overnight. I'm left to reflect on the damage the lack of sleep I've experienced has had on me. Not that I'd want it any other way. Having kids is the only meaning of life: everything else is just straws and ash. Dustbowls. Keep your fancy job, your car, your holiday home.
This deterioration has legs now, it has momentum, pace. Insidious, frenetic, its anxiety seizes me, toys with me, has me frantically checking my existence on the world wide web. I'm fooking everywhere. Just in case you wanted to look me up.
10,000 tweets in 9 months is a slight exageration I feel. Or perhaps, perhaps, it's an attempt to defeat the passing of time. Perhaps I tweet to keep a record of who I am. As my memory slip slides away.
Fourteen years as a foreigner in a foreign land do not necessarily help in maintaining an idea of self. I could be wrong. The inability to accept certain aspects of life here leads to a rampant rage that keeps me young at least. I'm in fantastic shape, aesthetically. Inside I'm falling apart and my brain is gruffalo crumble but I look like a 25 year old. Apart from the telltale grey hair.
When the phone rings I'm gonna cut this shit out.
Deceptively though, I gatecrash my forties thinking I'm still in my 20s. The child inside still has a voice. Helps on the dad front.
Where did all the years go though? I can't really be closer to 50 than 30, can I?
Shelved projects, stale but entertaining enough professional life, parenthood you never enjoy as much you thought you would 'cos you're shattered. Don't get me wrong, it's the essence of life itself.
I'm becoming progressively more stressed out, more obsessive, more explosively intolerant of certain things. I'd like to pause time for a bit, take a breather to reflect on where I am, who I am, outside of this whirlwind.
You know what I mean.
And deep down there remains a gut wrenching desire to run away, from this place while that prize c*°t is in power, disturbing my sleep with that bald, grinning, shortarsed existence of his. Yes, despite the food, the weather, the beauty, the architecture, the cities. Or maybe I should just stop overestimating my role in society. Maybe I should just be keeping my head down and I should ignore what drives me fooking crazy. Hmm, dunno if I can do that.
A random succession of totally random events bring all of us to where we are. The same will be true when we are snatched away. Maybe that's all there is to it.
But where did all the time go? All those lives we imagined we'd lead, those endless heady romantic experiences. I've had my fair share, I ain't complaining.
Does any of this make any sense, does any of this mean anything?
I look into her eyes and I feel calm, just for a second, assured in the knowledge that I at least got one thing right.
Ring, ring, ring. I await your response.