Short time slows down, so you get to read that book and talk to your dog more.
And yet, long time speeds up so the future races towards you like a speeding train in a tunnel and you tell yourself — stop wasting time.
I’m sure there is an Einstein formula for this, but for now let’s go with a quote attributed to Albert when he got bored with explaining his theory of relativity to dunces like you and me.
He told his secretary to use this simple image to explain the relativity of time:
“When you sit with a nice girl for two hours you think it’s only a minute, but when you sit on a hot stove for a minute you think it’s two hours. That’s relativity.”
So time stretches or snaps depending on what you are doing at any particular time.
You at the back there — please do try and keep up.
One day you will find this useful to explain why you have been sitting in a chair for two hours talking to a magpie.
I first met Bert earlier this year when he arrived at the verandah restaurant for breakfast. Now I must say, I have never really been a fan of birds. I’ve always found them twitchy, unpredictable, bird-brained and a bit alien.
Magpies have always stolen a cube or two from Finski’s morning bowl of chicken necks tossed in herbal arthritis juice on a bed of dried and roasted grain, beef and vegetable nuts.
Maggies would hop, flap and squabble like supermarket toilet paper hoarders while Finski gobbled. I would grumpily shoo them away, which set the tone of my day — be assertive and don’t put up with nonsense.
But Bert was different.
He politely waited his turn on the pool fence until Finski and Bert’s noisy cousins had finished.
Then he silently swooped for a quick steal and flew off into the bush to swallow his treat. He did this several times until I lost patience and took the bowl inside. Then he stood at the door, threw his head back and warbled that sweet and beguiling melody that only magpies can produce.
How could I resist?
I opened the door, threw him a few cubes, he did a happy dance and I felt less grumpy. This became a routine until he came to visit me at lunchtime even though the dog food was indoors.
He sat on the fence warbling while I sat reading. His warble wouldn’t stop until I stopped reading and looked up. He dipped his beak, angled his head down and sized me up with his two golden-brown electric eyes.
Did he actually say “It’s lunchtime — where’s my food?”
I couldn’t be sure, but it certainly felt like he did.
It’s impossible to explain, but here I was, apparently doing nothing and not saying a word in any recognisable human language, but yet there was a conversation going on.
Now me and Bert share a bit of Einstein time every day.
It makes me feel better, makes him fatter and makes the universe seem like a slower, even more interesting place to spend time in.
John Lewis is a former News journalist.
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