and it kept in its place, not a frown upon its face, and its hand never hung by its side

[freckles_and_doubt]

On Sunday mornings I wind the clock. It's a seven-day mechanism, and by Saturday its chimes have started to run down, sounding progressively slower and more lethargic. It also gains about five minutes during the week, so I have to wait until it's not within five minutes of a chime and set it back. It has three separate mechanisms, for the movement, the Westminster chime and the actual striking on the hour, and I have to wind them up using a big brass key and two hands to get them fully wound. (Not at 20 past or 20 to or half past the hour, because then the big hand covers one of the keyholes). It's become a Sunday morning ritual very quickly. If I forget, the chimes lose synch and I have to fiddle with it to get it all back together, which is tricky and strangely mathematical.

I can't sufficiently state how happy this all makes me. It's like having a small, living creature on the piano, with wants and needs and a personality and a voice. I love my clock.

It's been a bit of a scrappy weekend; I spent most of yesterday trying to decide on a topic for this conference in August, and vascillating unhappily between Dickens fairy tales and Neil Gaiman/Tanith Lee/vampires. I think the vampires have it. You saw that coming, didn't you? Then we did Salty Cracker last night, what used to be Kubo's Little Japan in town and is now a sushi joint, but which does seriously good cooked Japanese food. Mmmm, tempura. It's a very weird ambience, though: it plays dreadful music, including Richard Clayderman, which is actually rendered almost acceptable by being inextricable from the pounding techno beat from the nightclub upstairs. It's a very postmodern experience, but was a lovely evening nonetheless.

Now I go forth on an epic quest, namely for maxbarners to try and take a sober academic photograph of me for the conference bio page. This is a challenge owing to my infallible tendency to look drunk in photos regardless of level of inebriation. Also, delegate photos these days seem to tend to the Artsy. I wait in breathless anticipation for what Max comes up with. I may even post some. If I don't look drunk.

In other news, good lord, it's May. Hate it when that happens.

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

My dad recently heard and passed on an Intriguing Tale, which I now pass on in slightly garbled form (being as I didn't quite hear it properly the first time, so all vaguenesses are my fault): the original inventor of the speaking clock kept the original speaking clock mechanism... which stopped, short, never to go again when the old man died.

I half want to ask him for more details so I can un-vague it, and half think this belongs in the "too good to check" pile.

scroob

[extemporanea.livejournal.com]

Hah! hopefully I hit you with my ear-worm, since the wretched song has been circling my head since I used the subject line. Sigh. And only myself to blame.

I completely agree that that your anecdote, which is lovely, is too good to check. Ignorance is bliss, and all that.

*wanders off, singing "Ninety years without slumbering, tick tock, tick tock..."*

[(Anonymous)]

Earworm very successful indeed, thank you. Luckily I have an actual Small Person to sing it to.