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Aug. 23rd, 2005 04:56 pmThe room is pretty much complete! Hurrah!
There are a couple of little bits that need to be done: the bottom inch of gloss paint on the door; the edge of the door to be planed so that (after 10 years) it actually shuts; a second coat of gloss on the window sill.
I have been promising myself a treat when I finished the room, and I knew exactly what it would be. I like old clocks. At the moment I have a rather nice, but very battered, 30s (40's?) mantle-shelf clock that, when i remember to wind it, not only keeps vaguely accurate time but also "bongs" attractively on the hour. The problem is that at some point in its history someone took a brillio pad to the face, which is consequently hideously scarred on one side.
My treat was to buy a replacement - and I knew just where to go. A few hundred yards from where I live is a little shop that sells second hand clocks. It's the sort of shop that has a sign in the window reading "We are open - please ring the bell". Frankly, they need the sign. You peer through the dusty window, past the piles of dusty clocks, dusty bits of clocks and faded dusty piles of horologically inclined magazines to an interior that contains more piles of clocks, bits of clocks and magazines.
I often look in the window on my way back from work - admiring the graceful curves of art nouveau clocks, the battlements of art deco clocks, the coffin forms of grandfather clocks and so on.
Today I rang the bell.
A small woman of indeterminate age opened the door. This was slightly disappointing as I had been hoping for a Kindly Old Gentleman with a waistcoat, white hair and pince-nez smelling of humbugs (the gentleman, not the pince-nez).
"I would like to buy a clock" I ventured.
"What sort? Mantle? Wall?" she riposted.
"A mantle clock" I replied.
"We've only got one that works. All the others are broken. We can restore any of them, but there's a six month waiting list."
I looked at the one working example. It was very big (about two foot high and a foot wide) featured an unnecessary number of pillars and had lots of twiddly bits. And it was £195.00.
"Ah." I said.
"Sorry." she replied.
I left, crestfallen.
There are a couple of little bits that need to be done: the bottom inch of gloss paint on the door; the edge of the door to be planed so that (after 10 years) it actually shuts; a second coat of gloss on the window sill.
I have been promising myself a treat when I finished the room, and I knew exactly what it would be. I like old clocks. At the moment I have a rather nice, but very battered, 30s (40's?) mantle-shelf clock that, when i remember to wind it, not only keeps vaguely accurate time but also "bongs" attractively on the hour. The problem is that at some point in its history someone took a brillio pad to the face, which is consequently hideously scarred on one side.
My treat was to buy a replacement - and I knew just where to go. A few hundred yards from where I live is a little shop that sells second hand clocks. It's the sort of shop that has a sign in the window reading "We are open - please ring the bell". Frankly, they need the sign. You peer through the dusty window, past the piles of dusty clocks, dusty bits of clocks and faded dusty piles of horologically inclined magazines to an interior that contains more piles of clocks, bits of clocks and magazines.
I often look in the window on my way back from work - admiring the graceful curves of art nouveau clocks, the battlements of art deco clocks, the coffin forms of grandfather clocks and so on.
Today I rang the bell.
A small woman of indeterminate age opened the door. This was slightly disappointing as I had been hoping for a Kindly Old Gentleman with a waistcoat, white hair and pince-nez smelling of humbugs (the gentleman, not the pince-nez).
"I would like to buy a clock" I ventured.
"What sort? Mantle? Wall?" she riposted.
"A mantle clock" I replied.
"We've only got one that works. All the others are broken. We can restore any of them, but there's a six month waiting list."
I looked at the one working example. It was very big (about two foot high and a foot wide) featured an unnecessary number of pillars and had lots of twiddly bits. And it was £195.00.
"Ah." I said.
"Sorry." she replied.
I left, crestfallen.
