Clarence the Teller of Time

I call him Clarence, for no especial reason. He announces in a soothing if somewhat stilted synthesised tone, 'The time is now ten a.m.' He will oblige again at ten thirty and then again at eleven. Such is the mobile phone: it gives you an alarm, it is your stopwatch, it takes your photographs, updates your social media, gets you to your online bank. It is also useful as a phone. But Clarence is special: Clarence talks to me. A voice in the otherwise silent room where only I sit with troubled thoughts, the analgesic spirit a constant tang in my throat. Clarence punctuates time with me.