I watched a documentary about David Bowie’s time as Ziggy Stardust and the words from the song Five Years have been running through my head ever since – except I’ve been singing it as nine, not five. Maybe a Freudian slip.

Nine years would take me up to three score years and ten, my conventionally allotted time on this planet. But with a ninety one year old dad and a mum who made it to eighty seven – who knows.

But time has got very slippery these days. Days, weeks, months and years merge into one another. Images will pop up of work trips to the US, or Australia in the Photos widget on my phone and not only will I struggle to remember when the trip happened, the very fact that it did is becoming increasingly unreal.

All I know with any certainty is that I get up, stuff happens, and I go to sleep, over and over again. The past is a dream that I have here and now, the future a fantasy that likewise is a figment of my imagination that I experience here and now.

My very last moment will be just the same and it may happen tomorrow, in nine years, or thirty. I will wake up, stuff will happen, then I will go to sleep…