I look at my reflection, and I think, look at the time already. That's no sneaky clock trickery. That is declaration of war. I'm ready. I hate my enemy, that thing called Time.
Who was it, inventing this fancy tale about a kindly old gentleman, the soft hush of his swathing robes gently coming upon us? Obviously they had nothing to do. Or they'd already given in.
Tell me, why don't you, how I should have a nice sit down now, half-way through my diurnal labours; to rest myself and stare through windows, better to respectfully regard the slow advance of this equitable old father. Maybe I can watch the sun sink down and, as the night draws close, welcome old man time generously while I enter wistful states of reverie and gently prepare myself, as if for sleep.
Sod it. Gentleness of years is a myth, and time is not a nice old man with a long white beard making his steady progress towards my garden path. Time is a big ugly toddler, twenty foot tall, with a hammer. Every morning he comes tearing up my geraniums, smashing through my front door, kicking the furniture about and aiming blows at my face.
He's met his match. I'll grab hold of my chainsaw and chase the bastard round the house. If I ever catch him, I'm having his arms and legs off and hanging them as trophies from my privet. That would stop the weeks and the months having a go, and they are worse. They come galloping at me like armies of monsters, trampling everything and caring nothing. I'll have them too for sawdust, if only I could make myself big and fierce enough in return.
I'm going to lose, of course I am. One morning in this fight I shall wake up, off my guard, bludgeoned to death under hammer blows. But until that final hour, prepare my purple, because I'm not giving in.