Yes, the clock is my enemy -- an ambidextrous task master that points an accusing baton at the minutes while snapping a feverish whip at each ticking second as if one of them might otherwise lollygag a millisecond or two. A few slothful seconds sure could work in my favor, though, especially if they started an epidemic of slackers and gave me a little time to eat something for lunch besides my fingernails. But no. The clock won't allow it.
Although I knew my writing time would diminish somewhat in the shadow of full time employment, I didn't expect to subdivide that time further with a clinging part time job -- no, wait, that's too diplomatic -- what I meant to say was a former job that can't make due with six weeks notice and expects me to sacrifice every lunch break, afternoon, and weekend to "train" my replacement. Factor family time, singing time, and volunteer time into that equation and that clock's baton is suddenly a minute bashing billy club.