Frocks and flowers

The passage of time is a strange thing indeed. All too often, time seems to go in leaps and bounds. Yet sometimes time is a waiting game when the days are passing slowly, knitting themselves into a shapeless tapestry of weeks, one all but indistinguishable from the other. The clock is ticking away the hours, its hands moving slowly towards the next, and time is a vacuum, a room full of memories with dust motes dancing in a sunbeam. If I didn't keep a journal - both serving as a record of these extraordinary times and an actual diary - I wouldn't remember what I'd been doing from one day to the next. The weeks are upside down. Instead of working five days,...