Half Past My Bedtime

When my middle daughter was about four years old, she loved talking. She still loves talking. She would often know what she wanted to say, but the exact choice of words would get away from her.

Late on an evening she would ask “is it half past my bedtime?”

It’s half past my bedtime now. The clock ticked past midnight some time ago. I’m sitting in the dark of the junk room (my office) tapping away at the keyboard for the first time in several days. I’ve thought about sitting down to write something several times, but one thing after another side-tracked me.

The term “side-tracked” must have something to do with railroads, I imagine. It’s quite a good analogy really – if you think about the universe always moving forwards, no paths ever lead back. Making good decisions would therefore seem to be that much more important – and yet I don’t tend to worry too much.

It’s that whole “putting one foot in front of the other” thing, isn’t it.

That’s not to say that I don’t wonder about paths not taken. Or paths that might still be taken. During quiet moments I sometimes wonder how the people I have come to know along the way are doing.

We all live busy lives. We lose touch with each other. Friendships that were once close become more distant. They are never forgotten though. In a strange sort of way, I suppose I am the product of everybody I have known – shaped by the crossing of our paths.


It’s getting late.

Time for bed.

It’s “half past my bedtime”, after all.

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