• I first met the old man when i was eight years old, sulking in the background of my sister's wedding. I was crouched by the door, just able to see the tall old clock in the next room. I sat there, counting off the seconds, willing the hands to speed up, willing my sister and her insufferable new husband to speed up their whirling attempt to dance untill the waltz's and the tango's combine into one frantic movement across the wooden floor.
    Quite suddenly, he filled the doorway, his slighty stooped frame filling somehow more than seemed acceptable for his body to do so. He strode confidently to the chair next to me, a mass produced number dragged up from deep inside the community centre's bowels for the wedding reception.
    He wore a patchy tweed suit, some bits new and others old, although the fabric seemed to change in age as the seconds passed and he took steps. The seconds and steps were the same; as the hall clock ticked, one foot would come down in a steady, endless rythem.
    As he laid back in the plastic, his skin seemed to change colour in the light, now asian, now darker, now back to white. His hair was neatly combed, and his beard trimmed to just jut over his chin.
    And then he turned to me and introduced himself as Grandfather.
    This was quite convincing to my eight year old mind, since my father's mother, my grandma, who was sitting tight lipped looking scathingly at my maternial grandparent's tippsy singing next to the punch bowl, never spoke of her husband; although whenever others spoke of him, their always put the word `late` in front of his name in a rather curious manner. I always assumed that they had done what Fred and Elliot had done at school and had a massive fight with each other and were now refusing to speak with each other.
    As I continued to stare at the clock, the old man began to pester me with questions;
    "How's school?"
    "What's your mother doing these days? Her usual harlot tricks I bet."
    I grunted out what I thought were acceptable answers and tried to focus my attention purely on the clock, rather than this curious relation I was sure would never die; at eight people never seem to anyway, so I was sure there was plenty of time, when I was in a better mood, to get to know him. Strangly, as I focused more on the clock I could hear him more and more- a dull institent drone at first, then as my mind was filled with the image of the white clock face, louder and louder and even more clearly. I became annoyed; my mouth pouted up in that curious way children have, and as it got louder and louder I hunched down and gave him my best `shut up` glare. He paused and looked hurt for a second, before getting to his feet.
    "You'll miss me when I'm gone you know. " He said, before striding away with his curious, one per second steps. As he reached the thershold of the outside, he took a glance behind him, at the clock still ticking away, at me, peering behind the hall's entrance.

    And then he jumped.

    As he gently flew through the air, everything seemed to speed up. The movements of the dancers became a blur, and the dinner table chatter became high pitched and covered more topics, more gossip. The other children, having long stopped trying to get me involved in their games, became missles bouncing around the hall, under tables and into each other, giggling and laughing the entire time. Then he suddenly landed and time righted itself, the dancers returning to copable speeds and the children flopping down, tired after all their efforts. As my mum picked me up in her arms, I noticed a rather curious thing; although the jump had lasted seconds, the black hands on the tall clock which only a moment ago had pointed to 3 for the hour and 6 for the minute, they were now aimed at 4 and 9, respectively.

    I end.