My father loved clocks - but this doesn't really explain why, in a smallish house, I've been able to gather together five cheap alarm clocks. I had to round them up - some of them have distractingly loud ticks. Now it just sounds as though the bathroom is full of rhythmic woodpeckers.
And this isn't counting the larger, extra-loud alarm clock we bought him when he started to complain that he couldn't hear one of these going off in the morning - an alarm clock that sounded from downstairs as though there was some kind of dreadful emergency going on when it rang. Nor the two clock radios; nor the two carriage clocks; nor the larger nineteenth century gilt ornamental mantel clock, nor the rather fine ormolu Empire clock with Diana the huntress, and a greyhound (picked up cheap in Cumberland in the late 1950s, and still without its original hands), nor the nineteenth century painted American clock, nor an assortment of Victorian pocket watches, nor, of course, the grandfather clock in the hall. And then there's the tin, in the garage, of spare clock parts.
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