Once I knew a girl born on February 29th. An old friend, from way back when, one of those childhood friendships that fall behind you as you move on with your life, not because they were not meaningful but simply because your paths diverged, or you moved at speed, on different maps. Anyway, every four years she celebrated her special day with a big party and the other three she had to choose if she wanted to celebrate at the end of February or the first day of March. I always found the idea fascinating, on an abstract level. How can a day… disappear… and reappear… makes a mockery of our sense of time, if you ask me. It’s all fake. Arbitrary.

Have you read Carlo Rovelli The Order of Time? It’s fascinating. It says time goes slower the higher you go, like on a top of a high mountain, or in an aeroplane compared to sea level. Or something. I forget what.

29th of February. A day that doesn’t always exist.

This morning, this ‘every-four-years’ morning, the dog and I went on a walk and saw muntjaks, and phaesants, and a field full of sheep where we didn’t expect them to be. We saw hawthorn blossom and an abandoned barn.

I wonder if they appreciate the extra day in their lives.