“So, you only harvest the good experiences?” I asked, quite enjoying the game that either he started or I did, and he truly believed he could sell time. He looked at me and answered: “Not just the good times, obviously the sensation of love, a party at the Playboy Mansion or a child growing up are some of our finest wines, each sip to be savoured for the pleasure and happiness. But some require just the house wine and we provide those with times like watching six episodes of some trash American series. Then you curse when it’s 3am and feel tired the following day at work; or you’re in a pub on an average night like this, having a quiet drink with a friend. Those bits of low event time can be scrubbed clean and used like new for our clients. Think own brand with no taste till you add your own recipe options.” I really had trouble trying not to smile or even burst out laughing as he tried to bring me into his world. “You harvest the good and average time, so I guess only leaving mostly just bad times?” I enquired, now making odd sense from his logic.

“Totally, can you see now why often the bad times stick in your mind, whilst some of your best can barely even be grasped in detail?” He leaned in again and said: “Well, we do harvest some of the bad times, we do have some clients with particular tastes.” He took another gulp of the ale, more for a dry mouth than the ale itself. I leaned in as well to encourage him to continue. “They are more difficult to harvest, dangerous one would say. Protective gear is necessary and a lot of man power.”

“Wow!” I said. I would like to think it was an act of clever wit, but it was the only thing I could think of as he described the act of harvesting time like some sort of mining operation. Time, drilled, collected, cleaned, packaged and sold to… “Hold up, who are your clients? Who buys this time off you? Something like time must be expensive and you would not be selling it in a student pub.” He looked straight at me, his almost closed eyes boring deeper than made me comfortable. He raised his glass of ‘Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar’, motioned a respectful tilt and proceeded to down the last of the golden liquid. He took a deep breath and said: “You’re right there, I would not be selling it here,” looking around at the now mostly empty bar and the few odd groups, well past the drunk and boisterous stage. He then stood up and looked down at me, “I was just taking your time up and now I bid you farewell.” With that he walked up to the door. The doorman, who looked like he wanted to be going home, opened the door and let him out into the night. I sat there for a minute, looked at my book, noticing the ale puddle gone and tried to process what just happened with little real comprehension, except the guy was not playing with a full deck. I picked up my mobile, pressed the unlock and looked at the time. It was 2am and I wondered how that happened. So I finished my pint, stood up, put my coat on, grabbed the book and left the pub, saying my farewells to the doorman and went home cursing myself as I would be tired at work tomorrow.

*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman

Thanks to the Hobbit Pub for use of glasses, tables, bartops and I hope Adi enjoyed the pint once not needed for the photo shoot.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The man was still there when I got back, flicking through my book and quietly laughing to himself. “Something funny?” I asked as I put his pint down in front him. He looked up at me, wiped his eyes and spoke: “Just something in your book, they where never like that.”

“What where never like what?” I replied, sliding myself across the wooden bench, shoving my jacket up out of the way. He put the book down again, knocking his pint and splashing the nectar of the old gods across its cover. He did not even acknowledge the fact as he began to speak again. “Oh, don’t worry, just a little factual inaccuracy.”

“In my book? But my book is fiction!” I answered. He looked at me, then down at the book. The beer, now a puddle on the old and discoloured cover, was beginning to seep into the leathered material. Out of the crackling speaker above the bench behind me, strange and out of place chanting gently accompanied James singing of a thing that should not be. “If you say so,” he remarked, pushing the book to one side and leaning in towards me. “So about this time then, you interested?” he said in a hushed voice. I motioned a cheer with my glass and took a swig on my ale. When I finished I answered him. “I still don’t understand what you are trying to sell and never mind what it costs.”

“Alright, I forget you folk see time differently,” he said as he sat back, took a drink of his own pint and continued. “Ever spent a night dancing, had a few drinks, laughed with friends, met a beautiful girl, taken her home and did the old drunken last dance in bed? Then lying there with your arms around her you wondered why it only felt like an hour ago you where contemplating staying in as you were tired. Where had the night gone? It had gone so quickly and your memories don’t add up to the time that had passed? ”

“Yeah, it’s called being drunk!” I said raising my glass again.

“Well, yes and no. You see, yes, your drunk and that does make it all so much easier,” he said with a cheeky but mischievous grin. “Easier for what?” I asked. “Easier for us to harvest your time,” he replied. The only thing that I could bring into words was “Harvest Time.”

“Yes, harvest, like bring in the crops to feed us through the winter. You see, time is an interesting thing, it’s like flypaper for events, sensations and feelings. It sticks to it and wiggles for bit then gives up and returns to the universe to be recycled. But whilst it’s wiggling, it has life and that, my friend, is a commodity.” He sat back, took his pint for another drink looking at me like he had just revealed a great secret to me. I tried to understand what he had tried to explain. “So,” I began, “time is the flypaper, human events and all we feel with it are the flies.” He nodded his head, up and down. I continued on: “and so you sell these flies before the flies die?”

“Yes, spot on!” he exclaimed.

“You chop up the flypaper and sell it fly by fly?”

“Indeed, your are a clever one, aren’t you.” He nodded just once this time and gave me a wary look. He looked thoughtful for a moment and continued his sales pitch at me. “We have all sorts of time for all needs, but mind – the better the experience the higher the price.”

*Shoggoth’s Old Peculiar – Hops grown by HP Lovecraft and brewed by Neil Gaiman

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4