Greg Moodie with Rose Garnett

I ONCE read that time is elastic. I don’t know what it means but I always liked the sound of it. Recently I tried to stretch my hours to accommodate some of the grand artistic achievements that might be within my grasp if only I wasn’t such a wastrel. I got as far as cleaning the brushes I’d left soaking over a week ago, then it was lunchtime and the elastic snapped back. I think my time is more like string.

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