We measure the world in chunks appropriate to the size of human perception, and of course it could never be otherwise.
With our weak eyes, we could only presume the existence of the atom, until we invented a device which delivered it to us in all its glory.
Chunks of time are interpreted in the same way - we read and accept that ice ages happen, but their infrequency relative to the duration of a human lifetime means they are distant concepts. More real to us is the waxing and waning of a full year: the cycle of death and replenishment which is brief enough for us to contemplate. Perhaps if we were creatures with a lifespan of a million years, we'd only celebrate birthdays every ice age.
Whole years fall naturally into the scheme of our activities, and for most of us, this is the end of the matter. There are a few, though, for whom this repeating pattern is dangerously attractive, and such people begin to hoard dates in their minds as the be-all and end-all of everything.
For the last week or so, I've known that the anniversary of Bluefish's departure from England for the last time is imminent - in fact, it's today. I promised that I'd not commemorate it in any way, because it's of no importance. That something happened exactly one year ago is not worthy of time spent reflecting on it, for if we accept that it is, we risk spiralling into absurdity: marking monthly, weekly, daily, hourly repetitions.
On the adjacent road to where I lived this time last year, there is a dog who delights in the company of people. Bluefish and I would stop dead in our tracks and spend a couple of minutes petting him whenever he happened to be outside as we passed.
This morning, as my feet crunched through the remains of the snow on the way to work, the same dog was there, climbing up the gate and overjoyed - a messenger from the past. I stuck my hand through one of the gaps in the bars and stroked his head for a few moments, and then was on my way.
Then it was time to stop and stare at the house on the street named after an Australian city. The person or people who have moved in there now must think I am staking them out because I always look and then walk on, shaking my head sadly.
I assured myself that there would be no further recollection of Bluefish. God, no. I'm stronger than that.
Yet at approaching 6pm, I skulked off, shame-faced and cursing myself, to the works canteen, giving it my best guess as to the exact moment on December 5, 2009 when the lift doors shut, and Bluefish had disappeared forever.
I sat down and tried to close out the television programme about cars which was blaring out around me, and stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, quietly. Then, businesslike and rapidly, I got up from my position and returned to work.
Five hours later, the most appropriate song in my limited musical vocabulary - Mike and the Mechanics' Over My Shoulder plays for the seventh or eighth time tonight, having been dug up from the great god of the internet. There is another hour of self-loathing to go yet before the day is finally over.
(At least, beyond midnight, there's some cricket on the radio to distract me. England are playing against - who else? - Australia.)
