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Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Losing Track of Time

My younger brother Mark and I both rather marveled at how long my wife Jack spent in bed ─ she never managed to get up for the day until around 1:30 p.m.

But I explained to him that she is a very poor sleeper as a rule, and she had actually gotten up earlier to drive her youngest son Pote to work over in Guildford.

When she did finally get up, Mark was not too long in heading out for the afternoon ─  he was starting things off with a visit to former neighbours we had when we were renters and lived in a townhouse complex prior to starting mortgage payments on our present home in 2002.

Jack was not communicative, and I didn't press matters ─ I just watched T.V. and slowly drank.  I had begun late in the morning.

Not too long after Mark headed out, though, she announced that she was going to do some shopping at Henlong Market.

She was to be gone for over four hours, and apparently even surprised herself ─ she arrived back home openly perplexed at how it was that she had managed to keep finding things to delay her return.

We certainly got a good blanketing of snow over yesterday ─ I took the following video clip around 11:48 a.m. that day:

Jack noticed that I had managed to drink most of the 1.75-litre bottle of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum that Mark had gotten me as a Christmas present.

I would have had it finished if I had not first been drinking rye whisky Christmas morning.

The dear girl did a fair amount of cooking.  And then around 7:00 p.m., it was apparent that she was getting ready to leave and return to Vancouver from whence she had come the previous afternoon.

Had I not been slowly drinking over the course of the day, I would have felt pangs of loneliness to find myself all alone after everything that had been happening in this house since Christmas Day.

But the drink had numbed me emotionally, and I was spared.

A most peculiar thing had been happening with me since Boxing Day ─ I lost track of time.

For whatever reason, I somehow believed that today was Monday, and that there was still another holiday to follow tomorrow.

After Mark arrived home later that evening, he sat up watching a movie with me until 11:00 p.m., and then announced that he was heading on upstairs to his bedroom for the night ─ he had to work tomorrow.

It was only thereafter that my unfounded grasp of time started to unravel.  I had to come upstairs here to my computer to verify that it was indeed late Tuesday evening, and not Monday.

Something like that leaves a person feeling a considerable degree of confusion.  How did it happen?

Maybe drinking all day long for four consecutive days may have had a little to do with it....

I am going to finish today's post now with this journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting the small space in a house located on Ninth Street, one or two houses up from Third Avenue.

My bedtime the evening before was 7:00 p.m.
SATURDAY, December 27, 1975

I arose at 3:30 a.m.

My foot doesn't seem any better, and tonight will mark a full week since it went awry.

I was fooling around, and finally got my old Timex to run; I wound it!

I spent the morning typing Jean a letter.

I spent quite a bit of time lying atop my covers in the cool on my back so as not to fall soundly asleep.

Just after 2:30 p.m. as I was preparing to exercise, Bill dropped by.  He gave me 2 Western Lottery tickets.

Apparently on Monday he takes possession of a new 1976 car he is buying, trading in his Vega.

He said we were invited over to Mark's (by Cathy, no doubt) for a chicken supper, but I convinced him I can not with impunity sit up for such a late hour without a day's warning, especially with Christmas just past.

He accepted this, and hearing as he was leaving that I had a tin each of ham and oysters I didn't want, requested them; I grudgingly handed them over, not considering the act much of a favour to him.

After I finished my routine, I felt sufficiently refreshed that I held some regret about passing up a free meal that could have replaced one of my own, as well as the fellowship.

I shall retire at 7:00 p.m.  
I had hurt my foot running city streets for a long distance while I was wearing a pair of boots.

The letter I typed was to Jean M. Martin (née Black), an American pen-pal I had. 

My old friend William Alan Gill lived in a bachelor suite, perhaps four or so blocks from my room.  I felt unsettled about giving him the ham and the oysters because these were things I did not eat back then.  It seemed dishonorable to give him food that I deemed to be unclean ─ it felt deceitful.

The chicken supper invitation came from my younger brother Mark and his girlfriend Catherine Jeanette Gunther.  I declined because I was determined to maintain exceptionally early bedtimes so that I could start my days exceptionally early.

It all seems such folly now these many years later.
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