Why do I like this clock so much? Why has it travelled with me from boarding house to penthouse and back again?
Well, the buttery yellow sheen of the brass makes the clock look like a rising sun. And I admire the delicate engraving of the word 'Wisbech', a small town in Cambridgeshire. Paris, New York, London, Wisbech...from Fifth Avenue to the Fens.
But, most importantly, the clock has lost its hands and therefore its ability to order our lives. All that moves on its face are shadows and memories. I like to think of its hands, destroyed in a fire, spinning round in a plume of smoke and ash. Now they're specks on the face of planets that live for a trillion years, not teatime. And I'm free from the methodical tick of measured minutes - a perfect excuse to put the kettle on and dream of sunrises.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment