She snatched the Moment as it whizzed by her and she held it
very tight in her fist. Of course, what happened next was
inevitable: the Moment didn't stop whizzing. It just whizzed
further, pulling her along with it.
But she didn't let go. In her forty-five years of life, she
had let too many Moments whizz by and disappear before she
had time to say, "What time is it?"
What would have been the use, anyway? By the time the
question gets asked and answered, the time has changed and it
never stooooops . . .
No, the Moment did not let itself be snatched. It seemed like
it had been snatched, as if she had succeeded in imprisoning
it in her hand. But, actually, it was snatching her . . .
HELP! she thought, as she whizzed through some kind of
tunnel. I think I am heading for another dimension.
The world around her expanded and contracted as if she were
being sucked into another world, being reborn from the
womb.
What would happen, she wondered, if I let go of
this something-something Moment? It was the first time
she had a Moment to herself and she didn't know what to do
with it.
So often, people would say to her, "When you have a Moment,
could you — iron my shirt, read this, give X a phone
call, water my plants, etc."
And she had been quite happy to reply, "But I never
have a Moment." She never did seem to have a
Moment to herself.
And now she had one! What shall I do with it?
Iron the shirts? Read the boring article? Call X, Y and Z?
Water the plants? Feed the birds, tuppence a bag?
What does one do with a Moment?
Hey! Wait a minute . . .
But Moments don't wait. They whizz through space, never to be
seen again.
So she whizzed away . . .
