Seasonal and professional logistics mean adjustments to my body and time management clocks are required. This is not simply a matter of winding my watch's hour hand forward by one hour, for my internal pendulum does not run on digital information or even cogs and gears.
No, powerful sunbeams are needed because my biological chronology is apparently controlled by an old-fashioned sundial planted in the center of my head.
My doctor talks about some sort of trendy ailment he calls "seasonal affective disorder." And perhaps I should immerse my face in a radiating pool of brilliant white light before leaving the house. But this will only improve my body clock; it won't help much with my time management problems at work.
God knows I can't keep waiting for my unreliable gnomon to cast its ponderous shadow before addressing other business. At least I still hear the trusty chimes of employment each day, despite my heliocentric, haphazard schedule.
Alas, I can only wish my body and time management clocks were as grand as a hallway of grandfather clocks, as impressive as a Rolex strapped to a muscular arm, or as quirky as a wall of cuckoo clocks. Instead, I am burdened with this stationary plinth of antique timekeeping. Maybe I should invest in a pair of working gong-shaped earrings? Perhaps later, in an hour or two.
