On Time and My Inadequate Head.

I’ve heard it said by proper scientists that way back before any of us remember, time started. You know, I find it a bit difficult to get my head around the idea that time once wasn’t there and then suddenly it was. So there was a time before time? Well, serious people say it so I suppose we must take it seriously.

But that means that time is finite, which further means that one day we’ll come to the point beloved of ballad writers: The End of Time. (And we still worry about the gas bills?)

So what will happen when time comes to an end? Will we all be frozen in the act of doing whatever we’re doing in that Moment of Great Significance? Will the rivers stop flowing? Will the wind stop blowing? Will the grass stop growing? Will the dog stop peeing mid-pee, will Trump’s hair fall still at last, will the England-Australia test match cease at precisely 3.27pm on the third day? Will the whole of life on earth become one massive tableau for the perusal of godlike beings paying good money to take the guided tour?

How long will it take them, I wonder, because there are 70bn people on earth all doing different things. It won’t take any time at all, of course, because there won’t be any time.

So how the hell am I supposed to take life seriously when I’m in this mood? All I’ve drunk is a small bottle of Italian beer and two double scotches.