Sunday November 7962nd 1989

They say that time waits for no man, but they're wrong.

For I have captured time. I have locked time up. I have imprisoned time in a cage of my own choosing, with no-one on the outside to dream of coming to its rescue.

How did I achieve this inhumane act of universal terrorism? I'll tell you.

One day, on December 1st 1989, I didn't turn over my calendar.

Hey, I was a rebellious teenager, and the only reason why the oppressive 1980s government kept telling the masses that it was now December, was because they were all so afraid of all-out non-conformist anarchy. It was completely unfair. Now chill out and stop hassling me, Dad.

You know what? It may not even have happened on December 1st. It's easy to assume now that it was, because that calendar on the wall of my bedroom has been displaying November 1989 (with a picture of a golden eagle) for more years now than I literally care to count. I think I was actually turning over a day a month at one point to gradually catch up, so maybe the 1990s were when it, like, totally went all frozeny, y'know what I'm sayin'? As if it matters. Like, duh, whatever. (you are so sad)

Anyhew, so just how much of my life in that room has that golden bird had the (dubious) privilege of casting its beady eagle-eye over, down the years?

My collection of Radio Times issues that built-up on the floor over so many years. Herschel repeatedly dropping over with his various chums without any warning at 1am, and later. My shows on the radio. 8mm film shoots, and projections. My rushing out to work first thing in the morning. My rushing out to work first thing in the afternoon. Listening to the muffled sounds of many conversations with my dad downstairs. All my belongings being migrated en masse into a different room, but with the same layout, and said calendar getting rehung in a similar position to display the same month, so as to preserve the freeze.

Listening to the muffled sounds of many conversations with my dad upstairs, followed by a month of his absence, followed by a night when I returned to my bed and really didn't want to wake up the next day. An insane number of long distance phone-calls to and from New Zealand, most of them in excess of four hours, for six months. My packing a rucksack to leave home, and crying, only to come back and unpack it again a year later. And that large coffin-shaped package which is still lying on the floor awaiting its final final purpose. The sellotape has gone dry and peeled now - I'll have to get on to fixing that.

Anyway, today my mum came into my room to wake me with a cup of tea, and knocked the calendar down. When she picked it up and rehung it, it now displayed April. And a picture of a kingfisher. But still 1989.

I don't know what to do.