Know the Time

You had to have a watch. To tell time, of course, you shouldn't be late; and to know that you know the time; and besides, they looked so debonair. Inaudibly, nonchalantly, comfortably sitting, sliding on great, big wrists or slim, elegant ones, the wrists of those unfazed, seeming not to notice in the least except, occasionally, to tell the time. They shouldn't be late. Occasionally, very briefly, you wore one, of your own ham-handed, resourceful making when old cool-drink bottle-tops would do, and elastic bands, wrapped a couple of times around your tiny wrist held their temporarily acceptable faces more or less in place; a little dubious but just about adequate for now. Dad's creations were the best, though, not very strong, but very tasteful, handsome, so perfectly drawn (God, what a crafty hand !), so neatly cut out, would-be strap-ends deftly glued, expertly closed around your tiny wrist. But naturally you evolved and one's debonair toys must evolve too. You really had to have a watch. To really tell time, of course, you really shouldn't be late; and to really know that you really know the time. Your new toy was simple but you didn't care, or even know for that matter. You adored your progress in the mirror, which sometimes flatters, sometimes sneers, stood with arms folded, or stout-heartedly akimbo, sat elegantly, urbane hand to meditative chin, masquerading, so very nearly mastering the illusion. And you did not know the time. 3rd April 2005