In his classic novella “The Langoliers” Stephen King describes the usually unseen world that exists either side of the present moment.
The past is a spent place, a cold, grey zone, where the used up day is eaten up by the titular monsters.
The world of the future, the moment yet to come, lays before us, waiting for the present to come rushing in.
In the book, the characters accidentally enter these worlds by flying through a rip in time, caused by a freak weather phenomenon.
Well, I have news for Mr. King. The future moment can also be accessed by cat.
One moment you’re in deep, deep REM sleep, dreaming lucidly, the next minute you’re stood in your kitchen, swaying slightly, not even 20% fully awake, trying desperately to do the bidding of your terribly impatient feline overlord, the dream of running over an ancient stone bridge in order to get to a distant bus stop before the bus does still bouncing around the inside of your head.
With your pre-dawn pet-tasks complete, you can at last begin to take stock of the day.
The world beyond the living room window is a freeze-frame vista, as though a “pause” button had been pressed on a heavenly remote control.
The world is hung between night and day, light and dark, stillness and motion. The seagulls stand like corny plaster cast statuettes bought from a discount garden centre.
Then, suddenly, sunlight glints off the control tower of Copenhagen airport, and the world explodes into action.
Your consciousness is still partly resident in the twilight zone, however.
In a semi-zombified state you somehow manage to fill a kettle and switch it on without electrocuting yourself.
Bai Sha Lu green tea is dropped into a tea filter bag. The water comes up to temperature, and two and a half minutes later you are sitting on your balcony with a cup of liquid joy in your hand.
You sit there, enjoying the early morning sea air before it is tainted by the odour of automobiles, and drink the tea.
Slowly you feel yourself syncing up to the world.
By the time you finish the pot, the first early morning visitors to the sports complex over the road are already hopping, bouncing, and thrashing around on expensive looking gear, all chrome plate and cables.
Breakfast will soon need fixing, but not yet. Those leaves are still good for another round.
You refill the kettle for a second pot. The day isn’t going anywhere. It can wait.