Nooner Nooner

Nooner Nooner

An Apple a Day Keeps the PC Away

Once in a quaint village, where the sun seemed to dawdle in the sky and the breezes whispered secrets, there lived an eccentric inventor named Horatio. Horatio was obsessed with the nature of time. He believed, much to the amusement of his fellow villagers, that he could construct a machine that would manipulate its flow. His workshop was a cacophony of ticking, whirring, and rattling as he pieced together his life's work: a clockwork contraption he claimed could bend the very fabric of time.

One particular afternoon, as the village clock struck noon, Horatio's best friend, a witty and somewhat philosophical postman named Eliot, strolled into the workshop. He found Horatio entangled in a maze of gears and springs, a look of sheer frustration etched across his brow.

Eliot, ever the observer of the human condition, chuckled softly and remarked,

Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.
— Douglas Adams (1952-2001)

Horatio paused, tools in hand, and glanced up with an expression of exasperation.

"Ah, Eliot, if only you understood the complexities of what I'm attempting here! This machine, once complete, will reveal all the mysteries of time that you so casually jest about."

Intrigued and ever-supportive, Eliot decided to assist Horatio in his endeavours. Days turned weeks and weeks into months as the pair worked tirelessly, fueled by curiosity and copious amounts of tea. The villagers shook their heads, convinced that Horatio and Eliot were chasing fantasies, entangled in a quest for something as intangible as time.

One fateful evening, the machine was finally complete under the light of a full moon. It stood in the center of Horatio's workshop, a magnificent testament to human ingenuity and, perhaps, madness. With a deep breath and a hopeful heart, Horatio activated the mechanism. Gears rotated, springs coiled and uncoiled, and the air filled with the scent of ozone.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, everything did. Colours outside the workshop windows swirled, the sun flickered like a faulty lamp, and the hands of every clock in the village spun uncontrollably. Inside the workshop, however, time stood still. Horatio and Eliot watched in awe as a butterfly hovered motionless in the air, its wings glistening with suspended water droplets.

It was then that Horatio realized the truth in Eliot's words. As it pertained to the universe, time was an unyielding constant, but human perception of it was indeed malleable, subjective, and even illusory. With a solemn nod to his friend, he turned off the machine, and time snapped back to its proper pace.

Horatio and Eliot sat outside the workshop the next day, enjoying a leisurely lunch under the sun. They spoke little of the previous night's events, understanding that some discoveries were meant to be felt, not explained. As they shared sandwiches and laughter, the villagers couldn't help but notice a subtle change in the eccentric inventor and his philosophical postman friend's demeanour.

Time continued to march forward, indifferent to mortals' endeavours. Yet, in that small village, two friends had glimpsed its true nature and found contentment in knowing that while time might be an illusion, the moments they shared were profoundly real.

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