The soft bongs of history
One of these things was my grandparents' clock. It used to hang on the wall of their 16th century granite cottage in Guernsey. This cottage was an extremely spooky place at night. And if you happened to be lying awake, the fact that you could hear this clock strike sonorously from the fathom of darkness below was reassuring and strangely rational.
When I was five I stood on a chair to reach its hands. I wanted to move them so that I wouldn't have to wait so long for a children's television programme to appear. When my grandfather died Mum gave it to me. I remember her and Mase, having driven around to my house, carrying it indoors like a child's coffin. I've had it repaired at some cost once, but it doesn't take kindly to being moved about and it's not working properly again, and I've had it stored under the stairs in a cardboard box for some time.
I had to move it today and it shifted slightly, and once or twice gave out several admonishing bongs. I'm used to it doing this, despite the fact it hasn't been wound up for at least five years. The bongs took me back in a Proustian involuntary way to all kinds of happy memories.
Mum is feeling and sounding much better. She can think more clearly, and even went out for a pub lunch. This is all most excellent progress. For me a quiet day, involving a few bits and pieces, and a bit of moving things around at home.
One of these things was my grandparents' clock. It used to hang on the wall of their 16th century granite cottage in Guernsey. This cottage was an extremely spooky place at night. And if you happened to be lying awake, the fact that you could hear this clock strike sonorously from the fathom of darkness below was reassuring and strangely rational.
When I was five I stood on a chair to reach its hands. I wanted to move them so that I wouldn't have to wait so long for a children's television programme to appear. When my grandfather died Mum gave it to me. I remember her and Mase, having driven around to my house, carrying it indoors like a child's coffin. I've had it repaired at some cost once, but it doesn't take kindly to being moved about and it's not working properly again, and I've had it stored under the stairs in a cardboard box for some time.
I had to move it today and it shifted slightly, and once or twice gave out several admonishing bongs. I'm used to it doing this, despite the fact it hasn't been wound up for at least five years. The bongs took me back in a Proustian involuntary way to all kinds of happy memories.
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