In thirty years I have learnt how to kill time, spend it, waste it, mark it and make it. I have quality time set aside that I keep a careful watch over. There are rush hours crammed with crowds. Sick days written off. I have down time, like exhaled smoke.
For two weeks in the summer I vacate my life and go elsewhere to pass the time, frittering it profligately, tossing hours into fountains, baking whole days in hot, dusty landscapes. It’s then that I envy the wastrels, sitting silently on benches, watching the world pass with their mouths open.