Time is a Discipline

An essential Code for life.

Another Tuesday? Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself… Or is it that time reflects your age, banking it as a balance? The longer you live, the quicker it ticks. Six weeks was an age when I was a kid; no sooner does Christmas come these days, we’re putting the clocks forward.

We spoke about driving Jose’s van last week. I hadn’t driven much before… I never had to pass a test or anything; they didn’t do driving tests when I got my license, so I couldn’t know where the switch to turn his siren off was, anyway.

My Grandson’s a good driver… Although… he passed his test in a lorry six months before he was old enough for a provisional licence on a motorbike… that’s another story. I told you before Eric pushed a few boundaries as a kid… He still does.

Getting back to time. I’m a stickler for punctuality; I hate being late or waiting for people and listening to feeble excuses. It goes back to my time as an RSM in the Grenadiers. It’s a discipline. In those days on the parade ground, one shout across the yard. “Atten… Shun!” and a hundred hob-nailed boots, one crack in the same split second. With a pacing stick under my arm, I’d walk a few steps filled with pride, in control… upward of fifty men disciplined, tense, upright and hanging on my every syllable. It was like taking one of those things kids take these days… is it called an aphrodisiac? I’ve never had one myself… Eleven kids, though? Then in the stillness of the parade ground, I’d scan the ranks… tense and waiting for the following order, searching for the slightest movement or nervous twitch to send one of them to the kitchen on ‘Jankers’. Then the next shout. “Stand-at…” I’d wait and watch, anyone moves, and they were peeling spuds. “Ease”, I’d suddenly scream, and another crack of boots, split-second, together. “We’re not done yet”, I’d think, keeping them poised, under control… watching for movement. The point where I would catch someone was here. “Sta-aaa-aaa-nd……Easy” And that would be that. If no one moved, I had to pay for a couple of pints in the NAAFI to get a volunteer to help the cooks. My youngest, Eric’s dad, doesn’t believe I was in the Grenadier Guards. He makes jokes about it. I heard him talking with one of his mates once.

“Don’t you have to be six foot to be in the Grenadier Guards?” his mate asked.

“He had a three-foot busby.” The smart-arse told him, then when his mate asked him what about when he takes his hat off, he said. “He had hair then… And a buffount hair-style.”

I’m wondering off the point again. However you look at it, time is a discipline like I tell my kids and grandkids. Life is a clock, and when you’re under my wing…. I’m the pendulum… the tick-tock of life… the trouble is… Sometimes I make a decision they disagree with… stand to attention, boots on the ground, statuesque…  waiting, no pendulum swinging, and the hands static… But the bloody clock seems to spin around anyway and keep good time.

I’m getting wordy now, but I’ll tell you how Eric managed to pass his driving test at fifteen next week.

Have a great week, and stay safe.

Percy.