Sometimes it's hard to stop life passing you by. The flow of time becomes like a silent river, washing everything away before you even get the chance to watch it floating past.
My son is nearly 14, on the cusp of being a young man; the last time I looked he was a child.
We've been in our current house for two years; the last time I noticed, we were still moving in.
It's been over three years since my last novel was published; the last time I thought about it, I was still an up-and-coming British horror author within touching distance of "breaking out".
They say time flies, but that isn't entirely correct. It doesn't fly, it rushes through us and over us at high velocity, like river rapids. It leaves us drenched and shivering and wondering what the hell happened.
I'm 48; the last time I noticed, I was 31.
I'm tired and middle-aged; the last time I checked, I was still an angry young man.