Sunday evening. Another week has raced by. Ten curries are stacked in the refrigerator. The kitchen window is open to let this unseasonable Autumn warmth in. And with it, cutting the tranquility, is the sound of a roaring engine as the local hoons roll by. And I instinctively wish they'd just slow down.
It doesn't feel like that long ago I was cruising up a familiar hill in my slate-grey VK Commodore, not exceeding the speed limit, but going faster than I needed to. An old man at a crossing gave me the evil eye, and within our brief intersection he gestured graphically with his hands, just slow down.
I laughed at him, in the moment, nearly two decades ago. And now the world has turned and turned. Today I am the irate senior, and I think - if he has not yet died of old age - we'd agree, it'd be nice if time could just slow down.