Life with my partner, bless his heart, was a constant race against time, a race we invariably lost. It wasn’t intentional, not really. He had this peculiar notion that every clock in our home, especially the one in the kitchen, ran painstakingly slow. Every morning, as I’d be ready, keys in hand, he’d glance at the wall clock and declare, “Arre, it’s only 8:05! The clock is so slow. We still have plenty of time.” And then, inevitably, we’d be late. For office, for a doctor’s appointment, for a cousin’s engagement ceremony – you name it, we were fashionably, and often embarrassingly, late.
My Little Clock Conspiracy: How Seven Minutes Saved My Sanity
Published Anonymously
Submitted by a real person and published with their consent. Identity is never revealed.