I was ill in bed a few weeks ago, and the inspirational quotes found me. One of them stated that we all get—if we’re lucky—an average of about four thousand weeks of life. “That’s never right,” I thought. “That’s nothing!”
Turns out it is indeed right. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve had over half of my allocated weeks now!
This should be made clear so much earlier on. I don’t know why it’s affected me so much. Eighty years sounds ages… but four thousand weeks? It feels like the time I have left is ticking away like an eighties’ action film bomb timer, and I’ve still got so much to do! I still don’t know how to ski; I haven’t been cage diving with sharks; I’ve never visited Burgh Island hotel; I’ve not trained for a marathon; I’ve never sung in a Nashville bar, or performed for five minutes in a New York comedy club (the realisation that this one is definitely never going to happen now genuinely feels shit). There’s simply so much to do! What the fuck was I doing during weeks 1040 to 1560? I mean, having babies, yes, but not every bloody week! I’m so cross about this. Who stole my time?
In 2024 I am definitely going to learn to ski. I only live five minutes from the country’s “ultimate snow, ice, and leisure experience,” so there’s no excuse, really. (Please come and visit me in hospital when I inevitably break a limb or two—I’m not known for my athletic ability or my coordination skills).
As for Burgh Island, I often stare at photos of it, fantasising that one day (once the man of my dreams finally arrives) we’ll go there together. Instead, I’m going to change that fantasy to one where I’m a mysterious older woman, gazing at the stormy sea through the hotel’s windows, draped in a black satin robe, smoking from a gold cigarette holder, definitely a suspect in the murder Poirot will be investigating while I’m there.
I feel as though I’ve woken up and realised I’ve only got about a fortnight left.
Time: it’s a sneaky little bastard.
