Tempus Fugit

I belatedly flipped the kitchen calendar from October to November this morning and examined the fetching black and white picture of a fit young man pumping up the tyres on his bicycle wearing only a baseball cap. Last year’s students were responsible for this visual feast, having come up with a fundraising calendar featuring naked male students tastefully photographed about the campus with a selection of strategically placed props. It had been an instant sellout.

“Ah, nearly another year gone”, I sighed to myself as I took one last look at October’s calendar boy, who was delicately positioned on a grand marble staircase in the gallery along the road, wearing only his glasses. Just as I was about to have a quick fast forward to December, the doorbell rang and I was jolted back to the present. The spouse had taken delivery of my latest consignment of contact lenses.

“Here’s another one for your collection, remember where you’ve put it this time”, he said, knowing that it would not make the blindest bit of difference to my non-existent housekeeping methods.

“Blimey, is that three months, I feel as if I only just opened the last box”, I replied, disappointed that my life was no longer being measured by naked calendars but by boxes of contact lenses, packets of hearing aid batteries and the southside podiatry clinic waiting list.

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