I used to countdown the days. Wishing the weeks away and clock watching until Friday. Not wanting to slow down time. Time could be passed by saying, ‘it was only ten Mondays.’ Ten little Mondays and the things I’d been wanting would be there. Now, all I want to do is slow down time. Those ten little Mondays seem so precious. I don’t want them to disappear. I don’t know if this happens at midnight when you turn thirty or if it’s a slow burn. Simmering and smouldering as a countdown, somewhere on low, begins in the background. The dawning…