Quick, quick, slow.

Time. The one thing that we never seem to have enough of.

When I started this blog I vowed to write at least every other day, then it slipped to every third day for a while, and at the moment we're down to once a week (though there have been extraneous circumstance for this).

I've touched on this subject before, but there just doesn't seem to ever be enough time to write, to watch movies, to catch up regularly with friends. It seems to fly by, to disappear in the rear view mirror at an alarming rate.

Except sometimes it hits the brakes, it seems to stand still. Sometimes it even seems to stop.

Eleven days ago, when I got that first desperate phone call from Deborah screaming that she was being rushed into hospital the hundred minute drive over to Colchester seemed to take much, much longer.

For the whole journey I had a myriad of thoughts racing through my head. I didn't know what was wrong, and so my usually welcome fertile imagination turned on me. Suddenly my partner in crime had become my nemesis as I imagined everything from a false alarm to the unthinkable.

Sitting there in the accident and emergency unit as she lay on the bed in agony, the minutes stretched into hours as I willed the doctors and nurses to do something. They were, of course, doing their very best as quickly as they could, trying to comfort and treat everybody who was wheeled through the doors, but it wasn't fast enough. It never is when somebody you love is hurting.

I'm feeling this time slow down again tonight as I once more wait for news. I'm trying to occupy myself. I've watched a film. I've played GTA IV. Now I'm writing, drinking black coffee and smoking too many cigars. I sit. I wait. I worry.

Time. It always seem to go by too quickly.

Except when you want it to, and then it crawls......