Horological Heartbreak

Tags

automaton, bezel, clappers, escapement, fecit, fusee, Horology, hunter watches, long case, Tempus Fugit, Thursday disease

An old one, somewhat overlooked:

 (Longcase clock. Prince of Wales Museum, Mumbai

11/7/15  Image by AKS.9955)

 

 

The alarm rang.  I finally awoke.

He who had admired my hourglass figure

could never analyse what made me tick;

was unsympathetic to my moon phase.

(His mood swings were like a pendulum.)

Sometimes he seemed like an automaton.

At other times he would look raised daggers.

Yet people seemed to bracket us together.

My best friend thought he was rather striking.

But I felt he was winding me up-

like when he told me he had a pierced cock.

Although he had an open face, duplex

movements were second nature to him.

Now he’s not the mainspring of my life

any more.  We’d got into a bezel.

Tempus fugit… It had been a long case;

it was time someone regulated things.

My lack of self-esteem was weight-driven.

He was pushing me nearer to the verge.

I was getting Thursday disease all week,

waiting for him to dial; seeking a crutch.

I should have seen that he was the loser.

Inevitably I blew my fusee.

Mother said a man should be the hunter

and a girl’s best friend would be her jewels,

but I preferred to make my escapement

before my life was utterly screwed up.

Ultimately I ran like the clappers

to avoid horological heartbreak:

Now I don’t have fecit written on me.

 

(Thursday disease- gradual loss of precision in timekeeping as

clocks usually wound on a Sunday.)

Horological Heartbreak

Tags

bezel, bracket clock, clappers, deadbeat escapement, duplex movements, fecit, fusee, Horology, hunter watch, long case clock, mainspring, Moon Phase clock, orrery, pendulum, raised daggers on clock, Tempus Fugit

It was an orrery day in Suttonford.

Carrie stirred her coffee and griped,

Everything is basically okay between Gyles and myself, but you know…

What? I asked.

Well, our relationship just ticks over…

..hmmm.  But you wouldn’t want to sense alarm bells?

No, I suppose not. I mean, I wouldn’t want a ticking bomb!

Precisely. Maybe even clocks become out of synch with each

other, I mused. They don’t always chime at the same moment. 

Listen, I’ll cheer you up with a poem.

So, I took this one out of my notebook:

A CLOCKWORK AFFAIR

The alarm rang.  I finally awoke.

He who had admired my hourglass figure

could never analyse what made me tick;

was unsympathetic to my moon phase.

(His mood swings were like a pendulum.)

Yet, curiously, he never lost face.

Sometimes he seemed like an automaton.

At other times he would look raised daggers.

yet people seemed to bracket us together.

My best friend thought he was rather striking,

but I felt that he was winding me up-

like when he told me he had a pierced cock.

Although he had an open face, duplex

movements were second nature to him.

Now he’s not the mainspring of my life

any more.  We’d got into a bezel.

Tempus fugit…it had been a long case;

it was time someone regulated things.

My lack of self-esteem was weight-driven.

He was pushing me nearer to the verge.

I was getting Thursday disease all week,

waiting for him to dial, seeking a crutch.

I should have seen that he was the loser.

Inevitably, I lost my fusee.

Mother said a man should be the hunter

and a girl’s best friend would be her jewels,

but I made my own deadbeat escapement.

Ultimately I ran like the clappers

to avoid horological heartbreak.

Now I don’t have Fecit written on me.

Horological Heartbreak

Tags

Biennale des Antiquaires, Cartier, Clock, FT, Horology, Lord Alan Sugar, Nick Foulkes, United States, Watchmaker, water clocks

Hi!  It’s me- Candia again.  I have been so busy with all my Suttonford girlfriends and relating the minutiae of their riveting lives that I have somewhat merged into the background: is it possible?!

At the weekend I relaxed by reading the FT and, in particular, the Style section.  Then I realised that I could read my favourite columnists online at www.howtospendit.com

Diagram of a fancy clepsydra. Water enters and raises the figure, which points at the current hour for the day. Spillover water operates a series of gears that rotates a cylinder so that hour lengths are appropriate for today’s date. The ancient Greeks and Romans had twelve hours from sunrise to sunset; since summer days are longer than winter days, summer hours were longer than winter hours. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Nick Foulkes, or Swellboy, as he is wont to be called, seems to be big on desk accessories (and I don’t mean those Rubik cubes or metal suspended orbs in a frame that might grace the consoles of executives, such as Lord Alan Sugar).  No, he tends to frequent venues, such as the Biennale des Antiquaires in order to lavish prose on luxury goods, such as Cartier timepieces and water clocks which he insists are not clepsydra of the ancients. The latter seem to feature elegant lilies which float in a crystal pond, the flower making a full circuit every twelve hours, moved by a rotating magnet.  Goodness knows how it is adjusted when BST ends.

This reminded me of a poem that I wrote some years ago about a magnetic attraction which had somehow ceased.  Maybe the chain had come off!  Here it is for all you passionate horologists out there:

 

A CLOCKWORK AFFAIR

The alarm rang.  I finally awoke.

He who had admired my hourglass figure

could never analyse what made me tick;

was unsympathetic to my moon phase.

(His mood swings were like a pendulum.)

Sometimes he seemed like an automaton.

At other times he would look raised daggers.

Yet people seemed to bracket us together.

My best friend thought he was rather striking.

But I felt he was winding me up-

like when he told me he had a pierced cock.

Although he had an open face, duplex

movements were second nature to him.

Now he’s not the mainspring of my life

any more.  We’d got into a bezel.

Tempus fugit.. it had been a long case;

it was time someone regulated things.

Mother said a man should be the hunter

and a girl’s best friend would be her jewels,

but I preferred to make my escapement

before my life was utterly screwed up.

Ultimately I ran like the clappers

to avoid horological heartbreak:

Now I don’t have fecit written on me.