There are points of intersection between ancestry and watches. At its ridiculous height, Patek-Philippe markets our mere custodial role in matters of horological inheritance, more important than knowing what time it actually is. At a much more sentimental level, cheaper watches that graced a parent’s wrist and guided them through their days have a different kind of value and sense of tactile connection well beyond their resale estimate.
That said, I wear a Timex Expedition watch that cost me a cool $60 at The Bay. Although not engineered to synchronize precisely with the network of atomic clocks around the world, it guides me to appointments, including lunch with Philip Slayton, with sufficient accuracy. It also lights up in the dark at a boring play (more discretely than any mobile phone) if I need to know how much more of this I will endure.
It doesn’t tell me how well I slept, who just emailed me, or my oxygen saturation level. It doesn’t require re-charging and the battery, easily and cheaply replaced, lasts for years.
One of its few features that I actually don’t need is that it is “water-resistant to 50 metres”, something that will be of assistance only to the coroner in determining my time of death. I doubt my sons will be fighting over this heirloom (or my complete S.J. Perelman collection).
But even with this cheap timepiece, there is a romantic attachment to the past. In my childhood, the sonorous tones of John Cameron Swayze on TV narrated as Timex watches were subject to various forms of extreme torture, always concluding with the tagline that they “take a licking but keep on ticking” - a great motto for for life.
This is the first of your letters I have read and it may be the last. Not because I did not find it entertaining but because you bring me too close to the frontier of my own mortality. I am 72 and fighting like hell to delay going "into that good night". I am in second year university, although I still don't know what I want to be if I grow up. I am hitting the gym two to four times a week and going hard and I wear a Fitbit to tell me all about it. Half of my old golf foursome have already shuffled off to the nineteenth hole in the sky. If I were to become a regular reader of your column and was to wake up one morning to see a message saying you were gone, or no longer capable of writing it, it would be a peek over the crumbly edge of the abyss.
So, my dear sir, it has been a pleasure meeting you and I hope you live forever, but I just can't take the chance.
There are points of intersection between ancestry and watches. At its ridiculous height, Patek-Philippe markets our mere custodial role in matters of horological inheritance, more important than knowing what time it actually is. At a much more sentimental level, cheaper watches that graced a parent’s wrist and guided them through their days have a different kind of value and sense of tactile connection well beyond their resale estimate.
That said, I wear a Timex Expedition watch that cost me a cool $60 at The Bay. Although not engineered to synchronize precisely with the network of atomic clocks around the world, it guides me to appointments, including lunch with Philip Slayton, with sufficient accuracy. It also lights up in the dark at a boring play (more discretely than any mobile phone) if I need to know how much more of this I will endure.
It doesn’t tell me how well I slept, who just emailed me, or my oxygen saturation level. It doesn’t require re-charging and the battery, easily and cheaply replaced, lasts for years.
One of its few features that I actually don’t need is that it is “water-resistant to 50 metres”, something that will be of assistance only to the coroner in determining my time of death. I doubt my sons will be fighting over this heirloom (or my complete S.J. Perelman collection).
But even with this cheap timepiece, there is a romantic attachment to the past. In my childhood, the sonorous tones of John Cameron Swayze on TV narrated as Timex watches were subject to various forms of extreme torture, always concluding with the tagline that they “take a licking but keep on ticking” - a great motto for for life.
I am a close friend of the author of watches.Apple terrifies me.
I’m in the hospital for ever,every morning at 5.00 am my blood pressure is taken.Apple skill at recording health information is unwelcome.
But I do adore the pleasure of his lovely visits to my warning sign hospital room.His range of conversation is stunning.
Lucky me
Julian
Dear Mr. Slayton,
This is the first of your letters I have read and it may be the last. Not because I did not find it entertaining but because you bring me too close to the frontier of my own mortality. I am 72 and fighting like hell to delay going "into that good night". I am in second year university, although I still don't know what I want to be if I grow up. I am hitting the gym two to four times a week and going hard and I wear a Fitbit to tell me all about it. Half of my old golf foursome have already shuffled off to the nineteenth hole in the sky. If I were to become a regular reader of your column and was to wake up one morning to see a message saying you were gone, or no longer capable of writing it, it would be a peek over the crumbly edge of the abyss.
So, my dear sir, it has been a pleasure meeting you and I hope you live forever, but I just can't take the chance.
Cheers!
Geoff Ireland