Changing The Clocks

We do own a proper clock- I mean a clock that goes by clockwork. My parents gave it me for my 21st birthday, or for passing my "A" levels or for some other long-gone personal milestone. It's 19th century, handsome- one of the nicest things we own. Only it doesn't work. We sent it to a guy who repairs clocks- a friend of my father-in-law's; he kept it for months- years; he adopted it as his pet project and enjoyed working on it so much he waived his fee. Or so he said.  Maybe he just liked displaying it in his shop window. Eventually, reluctantly, he sent it back- and it still didn't work. 

These days I regard it as an ornament. I don't see the point of trying to get it going. It wouldn't keep good time, would it? Not compared to our modern, battery operated clocks.

And we're not short of those. Ailz keeps being given them as free gifts by the catalogues she patronizes. And we display them all- proudly- fondly.  I like clocks. 

I can see two of them from where I'm sitting. They disagree with one another by about a minute. That's not their fault; it's mine. I went round the house last night setting them all forward by an hour and I wasn't being terribly precise. I could adjust them, of course; it would take a few seconds, but I prefer it this way. It's a teeny-tiny protest against the modern world's obsession with time and deadlines and all that stuff. Clocks make good servants, bad masters. So what if I keep missing the opening minute of Torchwood?