One day it was March and I was on a train and now it's almost the end of June and I don't know where it's all gone or how I can begin to catch up with myself. I'm not sure I can. I think of the little bits and pieces of my life passing by, unchronicled, and I wince. My notebooks are half-finished at the moment. Begun in heady enthusiasm, frantically scribbled they become forgotten too quickly.
There have been a lot of nights in the pub.
There have been some nights on stage.
The odd bonfire on the beach.
I've hosted wine tastings at 2 in the morning and one day I woke up with a corkscrew in my bed.
I explored cellars in Champagne and raised several glasses with dear friends.
I took a bow for Shakespeare two or three times.
I ran a half marathon and didn't die.
I've cooked a few cracking meals and cracked a bottle or two.
I smoked a cigar or two and a joint or two.
I've overslept and watched the sun rise.
One morning, in the wee hours, I talked to bunnies.
I've not baked bread.
I twisted my ankle walking home drunk one night.
I still haven't bought filing cabinets.
I got drunk and dragged my manuscript out from its purgatory under my desk and read passages from it, reminding myself it existed. I inflicted my prose on others and they didn't seem to mind too much.
I went swimming in the North Sea with 2000 inebriated students.
I helped 2 friends move.
I've said goodbye quite a few times, but said hello enough to balance it out.
I sat in the passenger seat of an Audi R8 and grinned like an idiot as it went very fast.
I sat in the driver's seat but was too frightened to hit the gas.
I've thought so much about writing and done so little about it.
I came up with another idea for a novel, but forgot it three minutes later.
I started only one other blog post in all that time.
I turned 33, rather quietly.
I looked at a new vintage of a wine I love, and realised that time isn't going to stop just because I'm not paying attention to it. I breathed deep and paused, holding the bottle and trying to remember every other year I tasted and loved. I rubbed my thumb on the '2007', wanting it to reveal a 2002 or a 2005, wanting some of that time back, not yearning for the past but for more of the future ahead of me.
Now the summer has settled and the Red Sox are in first place. My manuscript needs dusting, my blogs need entries and there will always be another vintage. Since I can't stop it I've got grab as much as I can before it passes me by.
