Another Easter has hopped on by and the year is disappearing faster than a rabbit being chased by a marauding bunch of kids all pepped-up on Kinder Surprise.

We’re off to a flyer and it’s difficult to keep up.

The football season is not only here already, but my work colleagues have posted what appears an insurmountable lead over me in the tipping comp.

Sure, I could stop religiously backing North Melbourne, but that would be such an easy fix it would be almost like cheating.

Time is certainly speeding up.

By Easter – not the one we just had but the one before that – I was supposed to have done a lot more work in the backyard than I have.

For example, we were meant to have a path, some gardens, a fish pond, maybe a new shed and a repaired fence.

Instead, the Tonka trucks have been kicked around a bit, we’ve grown some more moss on the barbecue and the bindi-eyes are performing wonderfully.

Frankly, I don’t know where the moss and the bindi-eyes find the time.

As the days vanish quicker by the day and other things all around us seem to be speeding up as well – such as the time it takes my kids to call out “Where are you Dad?” whenever I sneak away to a quiet corner to read a newspaper – there is some solace to be had in the notion that other things are slowing down, as if to keep the Earth from rotating off its axis – for now, at least.

Getting faster: Walking. I was in Brisbane the other day and one of the first things I noticed was how quickly everybody was walking.

I believe it is possible that Kerry Saxby-Junna could have had an even more illustrious race-walking career if she based her training on the streets of Brisbane, trying to keep up with the locals, who set a blistering pace despite the seemingly cumbersome effect of toting take-away coffees in cups the size of milkshake containers and constantly looking down at their blackberries.

Getting slower: My legs.

While the term “greased lightning” may never have been used to sum up my running ability in the past, I did manage to make the odd relay final back in the old Currumbin State School sports carnival days.

I loved the way the wind whistled through the picnic-cup-coloured anodized batons as I tore down the grassy straight towards the outstretched “V” grip of one of my Wirra housemates.

These days the only whistle associated with my athletic pursuits is the one of amazement from my doctor when he examines the extent of the hamstring tear sustained after being foolishly put through a gap at mixed touch and attempting to run for the line like I wasn’t 41 years old.

Getting faster: Petrol pumps – or more specifically, the digital meter which measures how much money you are pouring into your vehicle. Man that thing flies.

I remain in denial and will spend only $20 on most visits to the bowser, as I have done since the 1990s. It doesn’t take up much of my time, which is a positive, but on the downside it has meant some major adjustments to my driving routine.

I can only get about four trips up and down the driveway for that expenditure now and have had to get used to the blinking fuel icon on the dashboard, which is now standard operating procedure, even after I fill up.

Getting slower: My reflexes.

There was a time when I took a certain degree of pride in judging the rhythm of the petrol bowser and stopping the pump exactly when it ticked over to $20 without even having to slow down.

Granted, for reasons mentioned above, it is a more difficult assignment these days but that’s a lame excuse for stopping at $17 and limping it home cent by cent so as not to go over the magic mark.

In another telling sign, I allowed a sausage to fall off the barbecue hot plate into the red Buderim soil the other day, without so much as a twitch being registered by my tong arm.

In my barbecuing heyday, my tong-manship was such that I once deftly plucked a somersaulting sausage from mid-air, mildly impressing the gathered party with my cat-like reflexes, except maybe the dog. I was seeing them like bratwursts that day.