A Clockwork Story

precious westcloxI never thought it would happen to me. Falling in love with you, I mean. You stood alone amongst the giants. They were older, bigger, bolder. I saw them, but I didn’t take a second look. It was you who caught my eye.

You were small but beautiful. I came all the way here just for you. You stood on a shelf in a mental asylum. If they found out about you, and me, and you, and me, they’d say I was crazy. They’d say you were dirty and dusty. Even unclean spritually. Well, you know I never cared.

I survived a racist attack, paid an extortionate flight, and spent hours driving. I survived a week of wheat, gluten, meat and bread. There was no rice or Chinese cooking of my usual palate. Thousands of miles away from home, who knew I was to find you here, handsome.

I needed a second opinion. So I asked the younger of us two, picked you out of the shelf, and brought you to the owners. They dressed you up in bubble wrap. Tucked you in a brown paper bag. And put you on my tab.

In the car I prayed for you. I hugged you in my fleecy arms. I have found you, I have found you! We laughed and laughed to the Tasmanian rain. My precious! I exclaimed. You were the golden ring of Smeagol’s gain.

Had you sailed from Scotland afar, survived Dumbarton’s world war? Did you sail the oceans anew? North Atlantic, South Atlantic, Indian and Pacific? From river to river, from Clyde to Derwent, you were the mechanical advent. Norfolk is the new, Scotland is long overdue.

And so it is here, that I found you in an antiques store. Who didn’t want you anymore? Well, I do, I do. I had come all the way here, just for you. You were the product of horology, a contraction of engineering. There’s clockwork behind the scenes, come our Master is waiting.

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