I have noticed a distinct acceleration in the gravitational constant of my kitchen.
Last Tuesday, I dropped a piece of buttered toast. It did not merely fall; it accelerated with a ferocity that suggested the Earth had developed an urgent, personal craving for dairy. It struck the linoleum with a wet, flat slap before my hand had even registered the loss.
Similarly, my tea mug has begun jumping out of my fingers. I hold it, I think I hold it, and then suddenly it is in pieces on the floor, and I am standing there, holding a handle and a handful of fresh air.
I ran the calculations (on the back of a greasy envelope) and concluded that gravity is slipping. Or, perhaps, the friction coeffecient of my fingertips is decreasing as I age. But that would imply I am at fault, which is a highly unscientific conclusion.
The alternative is that the Earth is spinning slightly faster to shake us off. Like a wet dog.
Keep your boots laced tight. You wouldn’t want to fly off.