More than most people, journalists have always understood that time is a relative concept. This can be illustrated by an everyday example. If two observers, A and B (where A is the newsdesk and B is a reporter), are moving at a velocity v relative to each other, it will frequently appear to A that the deadline set for B's story was, for example, "3 p.m. at the latest"; whereas from B's point of view, the same deadline will appear to be "about half four". Both are right (though try telling the newsdesk). The point is that events which appear simultaneous to observers in the same frame of reference are not simultaneous to observers in different frames of reference in the space-time continuum. Equally, B may just have had a heavy lunch. Interestingly, as an object (let's call him B again, because Frank just doesn't sound scientific) moves towards the features end of the paper, the "time dilation" effect is such that there can be up to a whole day in the difference between the same deadline as observed from different positions (Tell me about it! - Features Ed).
It's not particularly relevant to the metaphor, but since I've done the research I might as well add that, in theory, time stops completely when an object reaches the speed of light (The speed of paint drying would be a start - Features Ed again).
So, as I say, Einstein has nothing to teach us journalists about the elastic properties of time. Nevertheless, again and again of late I have found myself asking the question: where has the time gone? I can't prove it, but I am absolutely convinced that either time has speeded up recently, or the years are getting seriously shorter.
When I was a teenager in the 1970s, a year lasted a full 12 months - a lot longer if you lived in two-channel land. Time flew only when you were having fun, and that wasn't often. This was long before the free availability of contraception, or the Celtic Tiger, so we were all miserable most of the time. But since about the late 1980s, time has been moving faster and faster. Years seem to pass now at a rate that used to be associated with seasons. Months are travelling at the speed of weeks. Days are hardly worth talking about. It'll be Christmas before we know it.
I should maybe point out here that I'm suffering from a midweek crisis at the moment. I woke up this morning thinking: my God, it's Wednesday already, and what have I got to show for it? My week is going nowhere! And I'm putting on weight! I was on the point of rushing out to join a health club and start training for next year's Marathon of the Sands when my nine-month-old daughter (wait - make that my 10-month-old daughter) woke up and pointed out loudly that the deadline for her breakfast passed five minutes ago.
Here is the nub of my problem. Never the most efficient organiser of time, my schedules have just fallen apart since the onset of parenthood; and, though I love my daughter dearly, I get the occasional pang for bygone days when I had the time to - to give just one example - scratch myself.
For good or bad, babies are put on the earth with the mission of filling your every available moment. They do this in two main ways: (1) being relentlessly charming and (2) driving you up the walls. Yesterday morning, my daughter was in the second mode. Struggling with a tooth, she was anxious to share her inner torment. And, although she was yelling at a pitch that Pavarotti would reach only if he had an accident with his zip, she still had enough energy left over to leave a trail of destruction in the living room - including some gastrically-modified food, formerly Readybrek.
At times like this, any parent will reach for Calpol, swallowing a bottle of it to see if does any good. Failing this, he can always give a spoonful to the baby, and this usually buys a little time. Of course, this is an unacceptable situation for any baby; and my daughter, although temporarily becalmed, sensed the danger. Her options were limited - she was strapped into her high chair out of reach of anything sharp or breakable - but this was an emergency. Suddenly she realised - Daddy had made a terrible mistake! The telephone was only three feet away! If only she could stretch . . . mmpphh . . . far enough . . . mmpph . . . Yes!
The sound of a phone crashing on a wooden floor is hard on a parent's nerves, especially when he's high on Calpol. But the important thing from the baby's point of view is that a quiet moment was averted.
I WAS complaining recently about the failure of the paperless office as a concept. A related and frequent occurrence in our house is that a pile of my current papers will be moved from where I left them to somewhere else. I'm not pointing the finger at any of my daughter's parents in particular, but someone is in the habit of moving stuff around.
Anyway, these papers will include things like yesterday's "to do" list, which on any given day I need to transcribe, word-for-word, as today's "to-do" list. And what really appals me is that, once moved, I can instantly forget them. Two months could pass before I come across the pile again and realise that a whole train of thought was cut off back there on March 23rd. That bill I meant to pay. That letter from the prisoner on death row in Texas who was due to be - damn! And so on.
Now I realise that some people are just naturally better at planning their time than others. (It's incredible, but I gather there are even people out there with two children, and a job.) I know that, like everything else, time management is a skill you can work on. After all, as every journalist knows, if you have all day to write a story, it will take you all day. Whereas, if the newsdesk needs it in an hour, well, you have no choice but to do it in an hour-and-a-half.
I realise there are some perfectly good courses in time management. I nearly enrolled for one last year, in fact. I just couldn't fit it in.
