I've worked out the answer,' Martin explained, in his usual off-hand way. ‘I'm switching to a twenty-six hour day. An extra hour to sleep and an extra one to work.'
    The waitress, Carol, brought over two plates of egg, bacons, beans and sausage. Manoeuvring through the close tables filled by regulars wolfing down greasy food that supermarkets just can't recreate. I thanked her as the plates clunked down on the stained plastic table in front of us.
    ‘Okay,' a pause, ‘Why?'
    ‘Simple. There's never enough time in the day - so add some more.' He said it casually, tucking in to his lunch as though the matter was settled.
    The Day in the Life café is a small out-of-the-way place, hidden away at the side of the Grand hotel on the seafront. Most people pass by unawares; it was only because I got lost that I stumbled across it. The owner was a large man who liked to lean on the counter. It was clean, fairly quiet (aside from the constant loop of Beatles' songs) and angled so that you had a good view of the seafront, with its endless crowds of people and traffic flowing past. On a clear day, the frail remains of the West Pier were visible. Martin and I had met up for lunch there for years. It was close to where I worked, and he could normally make it from wherever he was that week.
    ‘I always seem to be scrambling around.' He was sat across from me, dishevelled hair, unironed clothes and that half-here and half-elsewhere look. Almost unchanged since school. ‘Trying to get some proper work done.' His artwork that had been his life since school. ‘Any plans you have just get thrown out, and the day vanishes into oblivion.'
    Our conversations usually revolved around some injustice - politics, supermarkets, or the weather. This time I agreed with him. I'd spent most of my morning in a cramped office, which claimed to have air-conditioning. The constant drone of computers and conversation, flickering fluorescent lights and an uncomfortable warmth. I was a lucky one: sat next to a window. Though it didn't open. In less than an hour I had to go back to my job making sure boxes end up roughly where they're supposed to. Lunch was the highlight of my day, a colourful break from the dull-grey people I worked with.
    ‘Won't it get a bit - you know, confusing?'
    ‘Not if I keep it structured. I'll have to give up all the part-time work but I have some savings. Besides, if I can get this latest project I'm working on finished - well I won't have to worry about money.' He smiled, attention back on the food.
    The crowds continued to pass oblivious, business-suits, tourists and locals mixing together, buffeted by the sea wind that rattled the windows. My reflection stared back at me. I tried to think of a logical argument against it, and failed. Feeling uneasy, I set to work on my own plate.

‘Talk about inconsiderate!' My girlfriend had a habit of pacing up and down the room when we were having an argument. I think it helped her keep up momentum. ‘He's always been crazy!' It was a little past two in the morning, we'd been asleep until Martin phoned - having forgotten the time difference.
    ‘He apologised for waking us. It was a simple mistake.'
Rachel glared at me, still pacing at the bottom of the bed, in-between the window and the new pine wardrobe. Her dark red hair emphasising every turn.
‘It's not that big a deal,' I tried, regretting it before I'd even finished the sentence. The glare, the look of contempt, all perfected in the boardroom. One of the reasons I was very glad I didn't work for her, and pitied those who did.
    I'd met Martin for lunch the day after that conversation, as usual, the first day of his new system. For me it was twelve, but for him it was only ten. One unforeseen side-effect was that he found himself slipping further and further behind the rest of us, dropping two hours everyday. The next day he hadn't shown up. I sat in the café on my own, as it was only eight am for him. For the next week or so I ate alone. Occasionally I'd see him around, dipping into art shops in the Laines, emerging with a clutch of paints and other materials. For the first few weeks he seemed on the verge of chucking it in, tired of being out of step with the world, waking up just as the sun was setting and sleeping through the day. ‘Like going against the current,' as he put it. We still met for lunch three days out of every twelve. Every thirteenth day he was back in step, both of us eating at twelve. The day before he ate at two, the day after at ten.
    ‘Why don't you just come back to bed?' Rachel ignored me, pausing at the bedroom window, bathed in the orange light of the street-lamp. I tried not to think about having to get up in less than five hours, ignoring the shirt and tie already picked out and waiting.
    ‘Two in the morning!' It was more an appeal to the world than to me.
    I sometimes wondered if he would cut himself off from the outside world completely. Food was always available from some twenty-four hour supermarket, but he relied on others like me to remind of him of when stuff like the rent was due. As the weeks went on though, he started to get used to his new way of life. He appeared healthier, once the initial shock had worn off. I started to get use to the strange lifestyle as well, to only seeing my friend a few days each month. It seemed almost normal.
    The local paper somehow got hold of the story and did a piece on him. A journalist went round to see him, not realising that for Martin it was four am. It only made page fifteen though, a novelty piece. They called my house once, but got Rachel. They didn't call again.
    She turned to look at me, some of the anger finally having been worn out. To my relief she started to get back into bed. I reached to switch off my bedside lamp, ready to settle down to some much needed sleep.
    The phone rang.

‘Things have never been better!' Martin welcomed me in with an intense enthusiasm I hadn't seen in him for a very long time. After a morning of monotonous paper shuffling, it was a bit of a jolt. It had been over a month since that first lunchtime conversation, and he was still with his twenty-six hour days. We were meeting at his house for lunch, as he claimed that leaving would be too much of a disruption. He wanted his project close at hand in case inspiration struck, so I made my way over to his house in Kensington street, just above the North Laines. A little out of my way, but a part of the city I always wanted to visit more. He lived a stone throw from where they're constructing one of the new housing developments, but his street still had many reminders of the Victorian and Art Deco movements. Though, much of it's crumbling.
    One of his neighbours, an elderly woman, had stopped me as I stood on his doorstep, launching into a rant about his strange habits. Once Martin opened the door though she skulked back into her house. Muttering to herself.
‘I've had trouble with her before,' he explained. I was sat in his cramped, but pleasant enough living room. I'd been there quite a few times before and was used to the rough sketches of shapes and patterns pinned up on the walls, the books on all kinds of topics scattered around, open at apparently random pages. Books on architecture, philosophy, aeroplane mechanics and a dozen other subjects.  In one corner was a TV, abandoned among the clutter and slowly being buried alive. ‘I don't interfere in her business, so I don't see what mine has to do with her.' Martin was shouting from the kitchen, making a cup of tea while I tried to find some room on the settee among the crumpled papers, paint-stained photographs of abandoned buildings and newspaper clippings. In the corner stood The Project. A sheet had been flung over it; he didn't like people to see something until it was finished.
    ‘Maybe she read that piece in the paper.'
He emerged from the kitchen, carrying two steaming cups of tea. ‘Maybe. I never got round to reading it.' He handed me a cup and seated himself on a coffee table I hadn't noticed was there; sending scraps of paper and books crashing onto the floor.      ‘I went to the newsagents but didn't realise it was after they'd closed,' he said with a smile, ‘hard to keep track sometimes.'
    A clock chimed somewhere, a custom-built piece with twenty-six hours. Someone who'd read about him in the paper had designed and built it for him. It saved him setting the normal clocks back two hours each day.
    ‘So it's still working out for you?'
    ‘It's the best thing I've ever done. I'm thinking of extending it - moving from twenty-six to twenty-eight hours, and then maybe even thirty. Have to do it slowly of course, bit jarring otherwise.'
    ‘Right.' What else could you say?
    ‘You should try it.'
    ‘I think Rachel might have something to say about that.'
    ‘This is the start of something. I can feel it. You have no idea what you're missing. No more worrying about tiring responsibilities, the rest of the human race can rush around and I'm left to work at my own pace.' Something occurred to him. ‘How many days has it been since I started this?'
    ‘...Thirty-nine,' I answered, puzzled.
    ‘For me it's only been thirty-six.'
    ‘I don't understand.'
    ‘My days are longer, so you're now three normal days ahead of me. Every twelve days you go one more ahead of me. In a year I'll have gained about twenty-four days over the rest of the population. More if I extend it. Time is relative after all.' The microwave pinged. Martin started for the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. ‘How is Rachel, by the way?'
    ‘Busy as ever.'
    Pause.
    ‘Sorry for ringing so late.'
    ‘No problem.' I tried to get more comfortable as he disappeared into the kitchen.     ‘How is the project going?' I called out.
    ‘You'll see it when it's finished,' he replied, mischievously. ‘Soon.'

The funeral was a simple affair. Most of Martin's family came: parents, two sisters and an uncle. Rachel couldn't make it, couldn't get the time off work. After the service we gathered at his house. I'd met most of his friends briefly before, and talked with them. Only his two sisters came along, keeping to themselves. Martin had never spoken about them much. They didn't keep in touch; he was regarded as the black sheep of a very respectable family from London. I offered them my condolences.         They spoke very little to anyone, and I got the impression they were only there as   they were responsible for sorting out his possessions, waiting for everyone else to leave. ‘Could've kept the place tidy at least,' and ‘Probably couldn't afford anything better,' were two of the more polite comments about the place I overheard from them.
    They'd tidied up, removing all the pictures and putting the books in neat piles. It made the house feel empty. Hanging over us as we talked though, was Martin's project; the huge painting dominated the room. His masterwork. Most of the conversations revolved around it, a kaleidoscope of colour and patterns. They seemed random, but with some concentration they started to flow into one another, a complex order arising out of chaos. At first, it had an unsettling effect, but it was impossible to ignore it, suggestions of images that drew you in and then twisted into something completely different. The normal and bizarre somehow merging. Just when it seemed to be on the verge of making sense, it would collapse back into chaos.
    His body had been found by a road one morning. Statements by his neighbours and people in the area showed he'd left his flat in the early hours of the morning and gone walking along the seafront, managing to wander quite far from the city centre. He needed fresh air occasionally in order to work. He'd been mugged and murdered. I didn't learn about it until a week later.
    We stayed for about an hour, talking about Martin and his work. I got to know his friends a bit better. Most were artists, or people Rachel would disapprove of. I promised to stay in touch. Afterwards I felt like having some time alone and found myself drifting towards the seafront. Leaning on the rails, I stared out at the vast sea, stretching off forever. He'd wanted his ashes scattered from the end of the West Pier, but it hadn't been allowed. His parents got them instead. We'd been due to meet for lunch at the café, but it's been closed - replaced by a Starbucks. They've torn out all the old fittings and placed large signs on the seafront to draw the public in. I don't go there anymore.