By Lauren Kerr
Jodie Whitaker is the new Doctor, they are calling her the first, you could try and explain that one, to seven-year-old me, who just assumed the world was bigger. At that age, I loved the idea of being able to control time - to be linear – now at this age, I love the idea of being able to control anything. Instead, I’m fleeting through it, all blurred eyes, and pigments. I watch my watch. I watch the hands glide, incognito. Do the hands think? About how they were to know, that after all the time that had passed, they would transition over it? I think about how maybe we could shrink. We could morph into the clock, and maybe, you could walk on three, and I’ll walk on nine, and maybe then, when you have to go, away from me, to the furthest point, maybe then, we will slip back over each other. Watch: the climatic brush with a movement, Watch: your hawk like eyes circling the room, Watch: your presence from behind me, mechanically slip away and watch: the realisation, that you’ll never stay. So, you can just tick on, and on and of course I’m going to let you. From my safe distance, and not too far behind I’ll follow. I’ll wait, for our brushing moment, to come again. The thrills from a frisk, our inevitable cross-over, of the man-made quartz.
The Jumble 