An Irishman's Diary

Next to "How'r'ya?" the most popular question in Irish life must surely be: "Where did the time go?" Of course, this is usually a disguised apology rather than a request for information, which is why nobody ever answers it.

The implication that you have been the victim of a time-warp is usually sufficient to discourage charges of unpunctuality. It's a rude person who, asked where the time went, tells you.

Here in Tara Street, we have been asking the question with more than usual feeling this week, after forgetting to advise readers last Saturday that the clocks were going back for winter. We have taken our letter-writers' criticism on the chin. But not since Proust's encounter with a bun inspired him to write À la recherche du temps perdu has an incident provoked such a bout of intense, time-related introspection.

The oversight is ironic given that, on moving to our shiny new offices, every journalist was equipped with a personal time-keeping device. The clocks are a thoughtful, generous gift from management, and until we can find a way to get rid of them, no reporter way past deadline can ever again resort to asking: "Where did the time go?" Despite this, somehow, we still managed to forget the hour change.

It's possible that the other gifts distracted us. Since the move also inaugurated a new "clear desk policy", none of us knows quite what to do with the attractive glass paperweight we were each given. In the old office, we had no paperweights. But this was not a problem, because the forest of documentation on every desk could be held in place by, for example, the first report of the Flood Tribunal, which was heavy enough to subdue a violent criminal, never mind a few press releases.

In the new office we have paperweights but no paper. Three weeks in, our desks remain as clean as the souls of first Holy Communicants. And even if they didn't, it is questionable whether, in an air-conditioned building where you don't open windows, there will ever be much need for something to hold papers in place.

If your office happened to be outdoors, on a wind farm, your paperweight would really come into its own. In a modern newsroom, however, it is useful only in emergencies, such as when a panicked night editor runs past your desk, exclaiming: "Oh no! We forgot about the clocks going back!" - causing a back-draught in which a few documents float gently to the floor. One has to admire the ingenuity of the decorative glass lobby in continuing to sell these products, against mounting odds.

Still, not even that is an excuse for us forgetting the time change. I think that we as journalists just have to put our hands up on this one and blame it on the marketing department. Not that marketers are responsible for the newspaper's content. But along with the PR sector, they form part of a general movement in modern Ireland that has changed the way we all think.

The mindset is illustrated by the Minister for Education when she says that this weekend's Fianna Fáil Ardfheis will be about "looking forward, not back" and will have a "positive message. . .not a negative one". The downside of this approach is that it will presumably prevent the Taoiseach from mentioning his achievements in government. But then, like everyone else these days, he has to be seen to be embracing the future.

This, I suspect, is the subconscious reason we forgot Saturday's time announcement. The forward-looking spring clock change is one thing. By contrast, no matter how we dressed it up, the October version would have involved us telling readers that they had to put their clocks back. No modern company wants to be associated with a message like that.

Then again, maybe we were just trying to get October over with, instead of putting the evil off for another 60 minutes. This is a grim month, however you look at it - made grimmer, paradoxically, by the premature onset of Christmas, which deprives you of something to look forward to when November is over. Not all of us have the discipline of the Taoiseach who, despite his famously ascetic lifestyle, always uses November as an opportunity for further self-denial.

A movement in the US has offered an alternative approach by designating this as National Novel Writing Month. The idea is that, starting from scratch on November 1st, you complete a creative work of 50,000 words by November 30th. You are then awarded a certificate, although the scheme works mainly on trust. There is nobody to check that you didn't start early and the "judges" may not even read your work. It's a bit like giving up drink for the month. Only you will know you did it.

The initiative is called NaNoWriMo for short. But that's where abbreviation begins and ends. The movement's website stresses the importance in any novel of "characterisation", "dialogue", and "padding". And since the book is considered a reward in itself, securing a publisher is mere window-dressing.

Novel writing is one solution to the November problem. It's a cheerful thought that even À la recherche du temps perdu began with a single sentence. It's a slightly less cheerful thought that Marcel Proust died in mid-November, before he could revise his final chapters. Try not to think about this if you're writing a novel this month. And good luck.