About Time

Once upon a time, nobody thought much about how to define time. We measured the passing of a day and a year and the cycles of life. History was written down with reference to important figures, usually the reign of kings or emperors, prophets or other very significant events. This has served us well for thousands of years … until now.

In the 1970s, a strange creature appeared, able to store knowledge in unprecedented ways. This creature had a curious notion of time, which it measured with reference to itself. It recorded time as the number of seconds since its official birthday, the start of the New Year 1970, according to the popular calendar in existence where it lived.

This new creature was expensive to feed. It didn’t have much space to remember all the dates and times that it needed to keep. The designers of this creature – for it was indeed a created being – could only get it to store numbers up to 2 billion and eight (note 1). That many seconds is 68 years, which surely must be enough for all practical purposes.

As the years rolled by, the creature stored more knowledge about real people. The designers realised they needed to refer to dates beyond those 68 years: pension payments, for example, for the younger designers, who were due to retire during or after 2038.

For a few years, the designers of a similar but older creature were distracted by another problem which recorded years differently. This creature stored date information with reference to the popular calendar in existence where it lived, but it only knew about years from zero to 99. So children due to be born a year hence were already 99 years old. And some people were due to retire in the past.

Once that creature had been tamed (at considerable expense, and not without controversy, for some people maintained that the creature was not wild at all) the designers were distracted with other creatures, mostly small pets that made interesting noises and played fun colourful games. Many of these pets died after a few short years, and were quickly replaced by newer pets. But whilst many designers were distracted by puppies and kittens, some had returned to the original problem.

One would imagine that something as universal as time would have a simple solution. Designers of the new generations of The Creature were not bound by the same restrictions as their predecessors were. They have argued long into many nights to find the right way getting the Creature to record time. Their answers are varied and beautiful, and yet there is not one universal answer to the question of time. Different Creatures measured time and dates from different starting points, and in different ways.

Fortunately, this situation meant there was plenty of work for the designers. They developed new design tools, new ways of communicating with the creature and new ways of making it do useful work, – and whole industries grew up converting from one set of tools to another. For most practical purposes, the Creature was now able to count far beyond a billion and six, and designers had a way of counting time so far into the future that the future of the future would called to account. (note 2).



(Note 1) Actually Four Billion and six: 4,294,967,296 which is 2 to the power of 32 (called a 32-bit Integer). But half of those numbers are negative numbers, so that computers could count from
-2147483648 (13th December 1901) to +2147483648 (19th January 2038).

(Note 2) Counting 2 to the power of 64 seconds allows us to measure time for the next 585 billion years. This must surely be enough for all practical purposes, for our own sun is not expected to last longer than about 5 billion years.

Brussels

Brussels is supposed to have a rather good Christmas market. In Grand place was a grand Christmas tree and a rather good nativity with real sheep grazing inside. The Christmas market itself was in the streets between there and Bourse. Maybe it was the rain, maybe the curfew, but I found it underwhelming, especially compared to the markets in many provincial German towns.

On my way to visit a friend, I passed The European Commission building - large, glass, curved front  - where the wheels of democracy turn very slowly. Over the road, the Old Hack Pub, and near it Kitty o'Shea's, where the borderless lubricant of alcohol flows very smoothly. They serve Guinness.

Just look at 11 Square Ambiorix. Victor Horta in a building. Maison St. Cyr, built by Art Deco architect Gustav Strauven, for himself, stands as a brash statement of über-art amid the merely interesting architecture around it. Apparently the building is renovated, but the mesh across the nain doora suggests a slightly different story. It isn't open to visitors though.

Brussels Midi/Zuid station: gateway to the world. Trains leave for France, Germany, the Netherlands, beyond, and to Britain, that Island people who refuse to understand what freedom of movement means. And whose borders remain guarded as the rest of Europe tries to live out its promise of freedom.

St Pancras.  We are sorry to announce that the 20.08 to West Hampstead has been cancelled. We apologise for the inconvenience caused.  Welcome to Britain.

Sinkholes

Recently, a sinkhole opened up in a residential street near where I live. Nobody was quite sure how deep it was. There were rumours that a postman had fallen into it, and couldn't get out unaided. Nobody was injured. The road was closed for a few days whilst they filled up the hole with concrete.

This reminded me of events earlier in the year, where I had skated around an emotional sinkhole, and had nearly fallen in.

The geological circumstances that lead up to the formation of a sinkhole are reasonably well understood. Rock or sand is eroded or dissolved by underground water flows. A cavern develops underground. Eventually, the land above has no support … and just caves in. There are rumours that this particular area was formerly a landfill site. The houses in that street are apparently underpinned, but that brings little comfort to those who live nearby. Sinkholes appear in residential areas quite suddenly, and the locals had no idea that there was a problem until the ground disappeared beneath their feet.

The situation is similar with emotional sinkholes.  I had moved sideways within the company, into a job that turned out to be a bad match with the things that I enjoy doing. Various aspects of the job were stressful. I had tried for over a year to make it work, hoping that it would get better, or that I would grow into it. And one day, I broke emotionally: something that my kids said tipped me over the edge, I snapped out verbally in anger, and stormed out of the room leaving those I love frightened and in tears.

I believe I was very lucky: this event made me realise that something wasn't right. My wife said she had been concerned about me for a few months. I didn't know what to do about it, but I knew I couldn't sweep it under the carpet.  I met up with a good friend a few days later, and opened up to him, not knowing what to do. "You're ill," he said. "Go and see your doctor urgently". My doctor was crystal clear about a diagnosis: "work-related stress, anxiety, and possibly depression". I was signed off for two weeks.

Sinkholes have a lot in common with emotional unhealth. My wife had seen the cracks in the tarmac, I had ignored the signs of ground-movement, and my family had watched the earth opening up around me. Without some dramatic changes, I knew I would fall into the sinkhole. I was lucky to have a good friend who grabbed me as the chasm opened up, and prevented me from falling. But I know that I stood on the edge of that pit of darkness, and I did not like what I saw.

Around me there are people - especially men - who see and ignore the cracks in the tarmac. Some deny that the ground is breaking up, that there is any kind of problem, despite the carnage around them. Others try desperately to pretend that everything is alright when it clearly isn't. Others have been there, in the pit of despair, and they are unable to get out. I also know people who have come out the other side. They give fleeting glimpses past the closed curtains of what it's like: a long, dark, painful journey. Some people have had to fight depression for many years.

When my doctor mentioned the D word, I knew that I must do whatever was necessary to avoid going there, regardless of the cost.  My doctor prescribed rest and exercise, and I made a decision that was to most of my friends irresponsible. I  knew I had to leave that job before it got the better of me. I resigned before I found another job to go to. In the minds of my friends were possibly the unspoken words "foolish", "stupid", "what about the family". Having seen what it has done to others, I would rather they brand me with these insults than I fall into the pit of depression.

I knew it was the right decision. Some understood. Many didn't. I gave up trying to explain it. I got through my notice period on adrenaline and hope. And as soon as I had left that office for the last time, my body made absolutely sure I got some rest - I spent the best part of two weeks in bed.

I shall leave for another time the story of how I found my new job, and why it is a god fit for me. I shall leave for another time the difference between passion and stress. Some day I might write about the difference between the stress of not knowing how to pay the mortgage compared to the stress of being in the wrong job. But let me finish today with this. Men, we need to talk more. We need to get our frustrations out into the open, and not bottle up our feelings. We probably need to slow down or do more exercise, but as soon as we see any kind of cracks in the tarmac of our lives, it's time to start talking.