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The Timeball sits atop of a tower at Point Gellibrand - a quaint relic of the past when, well over a century ago, ships at anchor in the Bay would set their chronometers as the ball descended at precisely 1pm each day. The Timeball is still in use though not for its original purpose but to serve the curiosity of the tourists. I often sit there and watch the spectacle, the ball lowering at 1pm, check my phone time to see if both are in sync - they always are. I think of the seafarers who navigated the high seas with instruments tuned to its time. They are all gone now, exist only in old photographs hung in the local maritime museum. The Timeball survives and I wonder whether if they, like me in darker moments, saw it as a slow guillotine slicing yet another day off their lives. I wonder too if they, like me, looked out over a wider world beset with strife, saw the Timeball fall as if counting down to some uncertain catastrophe gathering somewhere ahead. For them it was the horror of two world wars. For me and my age it is that thick, sulphuric mist spread out on the horizon, still shapeless and yet drawing ever nearer and will not stop. Its menacing advance measured day by day at 1pm when the Timeball drops

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