Brother, can you spare a time?

I’ve always tried to avoid puns like that, but even after a millennium in a vortex which looks almost too cloudy, I am still awful at titles. I pull a “Channel 4 Desperate” out of thin air and go with that. Otherwise it’ll just sound too literal. Without what I have already begun with, this little post would start “Homeless Helper talks idioms.”
Too vague? Too literal? That’s titles. I’ve been a TimeLord for thirteen bodies now, and to an outsider, I could just be a brand of wristwatch.

Anyway, the TARDIS seems to be up and running again. Against all odds and ignoring all deep-fat-fryers, I managed to install a new time rotor, redefine the dimension line locks and even build a new section to my library, all within the timespan of a Neo-Plecturian Galaxy. (Famously and bizarrely known as the only galaxy in past-existence to last less than twenty four hours.)
TimeLess seemed pleased when I told him the news; if a walking enigma/inexperienced swimmer/time anomaly can actually looked pleased. He talked about rabbits for a while. I’m thinking of trading in the top hat to get this magician idea out of his head, but should I suddenly take us from Brighton, Earth to “BBrighton, Hallus9 – The B is for Better!”, how else can he react? I’ve already overheard him muttering about Harry Potter.
Who, by the way, is an incredible mind for taking down dark wizards, but you ask him how a television works. It’s like asking Einstein who married Madonna.
I did that once. Watching geniuses flounder is oh-so entertaining.

As I said, TimeLess is still a walking mystery, and is no help of his own to try and deduce it. I was so close on getting an answer to “Where are you from?” and he responded with a two-hour duration conversation about jealousy in fish.
He’d know, I only just rescued him from sleeping with them.
The most I can deduce from him, by universal residue alone, is something to do with a guy named Frank and the Womble’s theme tune. I may just be getting interruptions from the mid-to-late 20th century again, and I’d like to avoid that. I’ve no desire to lay eyes on Bernard Cribbins ever again.

Anyway, TimeLess and I do seem to have at least one thing in common. It certainly isn’t fashion, I’ve rather outpaced him on that front. Instead, he and I share something on the weird scale of the list titled “Things with the word time in it” (told you, can’t do titles).
Borrowed Time.
He, because he never really seems to need it or desire it. I, lord or not, have never felt an altogether state of ownership.

It is a fantastic human phrase, however. One of my favourites, in fact, as I was keen to point out to the last human who used it nearby. She was old. Had asked me about my top-hat, cunningly luring me into conversation in that revolutionary trappy manner of the aged.

Still, it really is a great, two-word little phrase. Ridiculous, of course.
No-one borrows Time. No-one even gets any choice in the matter. Day One: Birth and BOOM, Time’s there and with you until your last, permanent blink. Making you early, late, and just sometimes when it feels somewhat merciful, punctual.
It doesn’t lend itself out, sell itself, offer leases or Time-shares, or collect debts. You will have Time, like it or not, until you have nothing else.

Funnily enough, there are only two people who can stand aside from this domination.
I used to think it was just me, until a certain irrelevancy interrupted me in the middle of a fish-and-chip stall.

TimeLess is one of the most…relatable companions. Travelling with me, I’ve had families, loners, doctors, natives, murderers, convicts, idiots – all lead along by one flamboyant mixture of everything.
(Although best of luck getting me to admit to any of my stupid times.)
But never before have I met one other, like me, with such disregard to Time, such…indifference.

Just maybe, someday, I’ll understand him.
For now, I think the TARDIS can take us to the planet Lanipus; a world entirely populated by white rabbits whom, after an unfortunate incident involving a crashed delivery ship containing nothing but self-help books, have suffered gross identity-crises.
Perhaps TimeLess can convince them who they really are, as I establish I’ve nothing to do with them.
If TimeLess gets one in my top-hat, there’ll be trouble.
But I can tell, I’ll enjoy him tagging along.

First though, I need to pay a visit to some kind of little shop. Since my drunken TimeLess-hunt, I’ve entirely run out of chewitts.



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