Time is my enemy. Certainly, we all work at one second per second, travelling forward through time, wherever we may be going, whatever we may be doing. But I have never had such a famine of time. My work is demanding, challenging. My days are long : 12-14 hour days are not unheard of, and weekend working is common. I am often exhausted. And stubbly. Life slips between the cracks.

There are other things that eat at me : things outside of work, such as a new boiler, or a derelict bathroom, or other things that need to be done. My health has suffered, as has home and it is a strain upon our love. Our glorious love, that I am overjoyed to be part of.

At the risk of sounding sentimental, I gaze at her and am staggered that she would consider me worthy of her. And that she puts up with me (and I, her). Whilst the rest of society is under assault in the war by the rich against the rest, I take refuge. In music and in comfort. My boys, so young, so beautiful, so happy, and I fear for the world that they will inherit. I cannot give them the world that I want them to have : a better one that my parents gave me.

The reason I write little is time. So little time there is. So much to do. This womans work is never done. I see a light ahead. It is the future. I start walking there.