 |
 |
Grandma Beat gave it to me for my tenth birthday, the dial, the size of the new ten cent bit, just right for my narrow wrist. Thin red second hand jerking over solid black numbers, luminous lime on gold outlined other hands. Stiff brown leather band with flimsy buckle. Presented in a crimson Bullova box, the only surviving remnant, watch forgotten in squash change room long ago. Box still in fine working order, now contains badges, also once worn: The Clash, No Nukes, Legalise It and, already obsolete, a pea-green iPod nano. Time was on everybody's hands back then. Wrist ready. Today digital numbers leap from mobile phones. Does it mean anything to anyone any more to tap on your naked wrist interrogatively? Grandma ran out of time a year after gifting me. The old box, having seen off what it contained may yet outlive its worn wearer. bw