Today, like yesterday, is Sunday. Don’t ask me how this came to pass. I have some speculations on the matter, but let’s stick with the facts: Today is Sunday. Tomorrow will be Monday. When Monday arrives, it will confirm what I said Sunday. And Saturday … well, Saturday was there when I was looking forward to it on Friday — I remember this like it was only yesterday — but then Saturday skipped town, leaving me with today, which — as I have said already, repeatedly — is Sunday.

Calendars — of which Sunday is a part (presumably also Saturday) — are fascinating contrivances. In some, the week begins on Sunday. In others, it begins on Monday. To my knowledge, no calendar week begins on Saturday. (And rightly so, I think — Saturday is fickle.)

We’ve no end of calendars. Aztec, Babylonian, and Carolingian calendars. Chinese, Christian, and Egyptian calendars. A calendar for farmers and for French Revolutionaries. Greek calendars and Gregorian ones. Inca, Jewish, Julian, legal, nature, and perpetual calendars. Primitive calendars. Roman calendars. Saxon and sporting calendars. Universal and university calendars. And last but not least, world calendars.

Had we but world enough, and time.

Time, too, is multifarious. Apparent time and artificial time and astronomical time. British Standard and Central European. Daylight Saving Time. Greenwich Mean. Local time and mean time. Miller time! Party time! Real time. Relative time and subjective time. Summer time. Universal time. And last but not least, world time.

Had we but world enough, and time.

And clocks? Alarm clocks, astronomical clocks, atomic clocks. Calendar and candle and chiming clocks. Cuckoo clocks, Dutch clocks, and grandfather clocks. Clocks both master and slave. Pendulum clocks. Recording, repeater, and self-winding clocks. Shadow clocks, speaking clocks, Swiss and spring-driven. Traveling, water, and weather clocks. And last but not least, world clocks.

Had we but world enough, and time.

You think from time to time “All in good time,” that only time will tell, biding your time when pressed for time knowing that time is money, having a hard time with no time off yet wasting time waiting with too much time on your hands for time to heal all wounds while having the time of your life living on borrowed time making up for lost time, time after time, until — at the appointed time, now behind the times, one step past the nick of time — you try turning back the hands of time that flies flies flies when you’re having one helluva time, one helluva time, until the time has finally come this time and you are OUT OF TIME.

And still wondering what happened to that Saturday.