The clock has a face the colour of buttermilk and the glass is coated in dust so thick I could write my name in it.
The stall is owned by an old lady.
She looks like a broom wearing a housecoat.
When I get home I wipe the dust from the face.
The clock had looked old when I saw it on the stall. Perhaps it had belonged to the old lady before all of the years had swept on by.
I flip it over and see that it has a battery compartment.
It’s more 1980s than 1890s.
There’s already a screw in the wall in just the right place – it’s if the wall has been waiting for this very clock for all of its life.
I hang it on the wall.
The clock keeps good time.
Very good time indeed if you don’t mind things running in reverse.
When 1985 comes around again I decide enough is enough and take the battery out.