I forgot what day it was. I forgot to write this column. The notion of Thursday left me until my partner returned from work. Then it clicked.

In my defence I’m ill. I’ve been counting my days in the number of tissues I’ve used. My time in the number of painkillers I can take.

I’m on the first painkiller now. When I remembered it was Thursday I was on the fourth. Time is fluid, but not meaningless.

In the same week as Armistice Day and Remembrance Sunday, when we are implored to remember those who fought and gave their lives for our freedom, ironically I forgot.

I didn’t forget them; the sacrifice, the bravery, the pain. I have my poppy, but I slept through the 11am two-minute silence, sick and mildly delirious in bed. I remembered them in my waking hours.

I was thankful. But without a marker, a date, a time, a pinpoint in the frenzy of life, with all the goodwill in the world, would we remember?

When the clocks went back to mark the end of British Summer Time I only had to manually alter one timepiece; a carriage clock inherited from my partner’s grandmother.

Every other phone, computer, oven, gadget, changed itself. If we hadn’t had to wind the carriage clock I’m not sure we’d have noticed.

Someone could hack the right computer and shift the time on a random Tuesday at 3am.

The DLR and Jubilee line boards are electronic in Canary Wharf. If they and our devices changed all at once, we’d wake and think the carriage clocks, the self-wind watches, needed new batteries.

We’d presume our electronic overlords were right. TfL is king.

Could it happen? It’d be handy to turn time back and hand this column in on Thursday.

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