(It is a happy accident that this photo, which I have just taken, is displaying the happy hour: Ten minutes past ten. When photographing clocks for advertisements, this time is always used as the most visually pleasing. I can’t find any information on this online, but take a look. It’s everywhere.)
The watch was given to me to mark my finishing school a little over seven years ago. I was there at its purchase; I spent a full day trawling local jewellers and shops to find something that didn’t belong either on a business man or Flash Gordon. It took some searching.
I like analogue watches. Time is analogue. Digital displays are everywhere now; if you are going to wear a machine on your wrist whose only purpose is to display time I’d prefer it not look like the readout on my mobile phone.
It is kinetic. Powered by the movement of my wrist. Cue 100 million wanking jokes. And for five years it ran smoothly. And for two years it ran ok, providing you didn’t leave it down for more than a day or two. This week it died. I was disappointed, having considered it part of my growing collection of possessions that will help me survive after the end of society. It needs no battery; it should work as long as I am working.
I’ve spent some time wondering whether to buy a new one; seven years is time enough. But after seven years, I still love this watch. It’s an appreciation that transcends the normal pull of flash or consumerism. Here is something that I need, that has served me well and I would use until the day I died, if I could. There can be no new feature-set for a wristwatch. Everything they’ve added after time and date has fucked them up in some way.
When I showed it to a watchmaker today he told me it could be serviced. The cost would be €130, more than the original cost of the watch. How are we to ever kick pointless consumerism when simple repair work costs more than the product itself? “And look,” he tapped at the front. “Your glass is chipped and scratched. Hardly worth your time.”
“I don’t fucking care!” I (almost) said to him. “This watch was to accompany me hunting through the ruined remains of our city in twenty years. What the fuck is a scratch?”
So I have three options:
- Pay the exorbitant repair fee, hope the piece returns in good order.
- Buy a new watch.
- The Internet leads me to believe I can fix this myself.
I will probably post some pictures of its insides, when the time comes.