I’m not above admitting my failings. To some extent, it’s beneficial. It is a pity, often remarked-upon by my editors, that my vast intellect, chiselled features, and incorrigible charm can make me seem too perfect to readers. For this reason, mentioning the few foibles I do possess helps make me seem more relatable.I have, thus, made no secret of the fact that I have no sense of direction. If you placed me six streets away from the room in which I’m writing these words, I’d probably die of starvation during the long trek back to familiar ground. I’m an inveterate wimp when it comes to either heat or cold, and despise frigid water above all things. I salute, and may even hold a certain grudging envy for, those hardy souls who take to sea swimming each New Year’s Day, but I would sooner put a gun in my mouth than join them.But nowhere do I feel more shamefully incomplete as an adult than in the matter of time. A youth spent fetishising digital watches — and an adulthood in which owning any variety of watch has simply never occurred — means that it still takes me a little while to read a clock. Most of this time is spent inwardly mumbling about the big hand and the little hand, in the manner of a six-year-old doing his best, by which time I generally concede that I’d have been better off looking at my phone.I’ve often wondered if this chronophobia h …
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