Time is a strict mistress ...

For the last few weeks I have been schlepping up to London on the coach, bundling along the motorway, lost in between the pages of a posh mag wondering if at just 5ft 4in I could really get away with polka dot palazzo pants and clashy, mismatchy florals - or exhausting the tiny weeny battery capacity of my 'not so blinking smart' smart phone while I try to tweet funny, invariably missing and sounding carpy or cross.

I could use the time to write, but I don't. I berate myself with thoughts of the uber talented Adele who by 21 has now eclipsed the achievments of Madgeonner. A feat I'll bet, she didn't manage by sitting at home craving chocolate and twiddling the knobs on her washing machine.

I treat myself unfairly by over committing to everything. I even over commit by buying too many books in the charity shop. Now I've got piles of them - random titles from a clutch of old Nick Hornby novels to a mustard yellow copy of  Harold S. Kushner's on Conquering Fear - sub titled 'Living Boldly in an Uncertain World'.


We're justified and we're ancient ...
Seems to me when you get to a certain age, it's easy to overschedule - just to feel justified. By the time you've finished your full beauty routine, coiffed your hair, smoothed on your ginger and twig body cream to avoid cellulumps and done a few early morning pilates stretches to wake up the system - it's getting late and time's a ticking past the optimum breakfast opportunity.

Now you have to skip the full 'all over' dowing session, and go straight to a type-skype with Australia. Friends are important. I'm always saying that. Why am I always saying that? Well because they are. Hmm they are, but the bugger of it is that good friendships, real genuine, heartfelt - 'there for you always, you know that' friendships - well they take a lot of time. Don't they?

Then there's time for me, time to think, time for work, time for chores, time to pop out to get some food for himself, so he doesn't starve while I am taking time to go up to London to spend more time working in a cupboard. Time for more stretching so my back doesn't bloody give out on the bus up to London. Just enough time to write this before it's time to go...

Time can be folded apparently - not in my house it can't. No-one picks it up off the floor, let alone folds it up and puts it away. Time wouldn't stand a chance at number 44. Nope. Time is in an untidy pile under the bed of a grumpy teen.

And even as I type this as fast as I can, so I won't be late for the bus - that track from Ghost is playing out on the radio - Unchained Melody and time seems to be mocking me. Really Time? What are you telling me? That my face will wrinkle with or without jolly expensive creams or the tender touch of a facialist. That my back twinges are because I'm bloody old - so there! Oh lord as Mr Righteous hits those high notes I'm beginning to realise - I am Time's pathetic plaything.

So if I can't beat Time - I plan to stop wasting it ...

• no more anti wrinkle anything | I accept
• up when I'm awake, to bed when I'm sleepy | I accept
• eat when I'm hungry | I accept
• shop online always unless I feel like it | I accept
• turn off my phone | I accept
• drink coffee slowly with relish | I accept