I think I lost interest in French because I like keeping my feet on the ground.
I got a tattered watch today in the morning from an uncle who said it’s from his daughter. His daughter said its mine. Gold on a black dial. Black leather bands that smell of talcum powder. Wrinkled and torn. On the reverse it says “genuine leather”. The colours have faded to the sepia of very old reminiscences; photographs of the first roots of the family tree. It’s a stainless steel case back.
There’s no second hand. And the watch says 8:04.
That’s my time of birth.
I smell it again. It’s a bit like the smell inside a chest of drawers. With the vermillion and small fancy rose shaped soaps from five star hotels and peach and yellow combs and transparent pink boxes with outdated visiting cards and hairbands and hairbrush and cellotapes and scissors. The drawer often gets stuck. There are perfume bottles inside; colourful and always mild and therefore sophisticated. They never leak. There might be some melted rubber bands, mostly red. Hooks. You see, the sewing box is actually round, no edges. It’s a challenge getting it shut. It keeps spinning and spills over. Needles hiding in the nooks and crannies. Necklaces that have come undone with beads rolling around. Sometimes a pink notepad. Grocery details from vegetarian days. Phone numbers of people from other cities. Reels of thread running across the length and breadth of the wood like bloodlines.
Like diagrams of the nervous system of the human body we used to draw in primary school. So it isn’t just me who’s nervous. Was it Alfred Hitchcock who wrote "The Mystery of The Nervous Lion"?
Why is the watch stuck at 8:04?
That’s the third time today that I can’t remember whether I took a bath.
Why can I understand everything I just wrote?