A Personal History of Time in Four Objects

Early on, I had a bedside alarm clock: a round, wind-up thing with hands of luminous pale green painted on by poor factory workers, and who might have succumbed to disease and died before their time for their efforts. It seems a high cost to allow strangers to see the time without needing to turn on a light.

Someone then gave me a travel alarm clock. I had yet to travel and had no prior thoughts of doing so being, as I was, not quite ten years old. It seemed an odd contraption: the square body of a wind-up clock attached to the lid of a hinged box by another hinge, so that the three hinged parts could fold in and enclose the clock part. Opened out, it formed a triangle with the base of the box being the base of the clock. The alarm, I remember, wasn’t that loud. Perhaps it’s quieter where people with travel clocks go.

I bought myself a radio alarm clock. Some mornings it would wake me with the sounds of the show before the Breakfast Show; other times I’d be woken by static. The tuning was unreliable and the threat of it malfunctioning on important days kept me awake at night. Then the cat took it upon himself to chew the aerial off. It was just a length of wire hanging down and it must have aroused the cat’s curiosity and so he bit it off gradually by degrees. He never touched the mains cable which also hung down with it. Curiosity didn’t kill that cat, not that time anyway.

The personal tablet is the Swiss Army Knife of the age: if you need something doing, someone has probably devised an app to do it. For it, the alarm clock is a cinch. You can be woken by any number of pleasant or hideous ringtones, or you can choose your favourite song, but be mindful that this can become like Bill Murray’s morning in Groundhog Day; it’s probably better to select “random” from a given playlist. Or you can have the radio. You can have the radio broadcast out of Toronto, Timor or Timbuktu. Be aware that it’s likely not to be first thing in the morning there.

inspired by the brilliant History of the World in 100 Objects by Neil MacGregor (BBC)

Catch A Spider

Thanks to Pete of BeetleyPete this morning for reminding me of the late Innovations catalogue. This was a mail order catalogue, a precursor to online shopping, and was included amongst all the crap you found inside your Sunday newspaper. The peculiarity of Innovations was that few of its offers were born of the maxim, Necessity Being The Mother of Invention. Not only were the items practically unnecessary but were often presented as solutions to problems which never existed.

I’ve shared the link Pete found below to give an idea of the absurdities you could have had but the one I want to consider here is the Humane Spider Remover. Basically, its a trap on a stick and operated by a trigger comfortingly remote from the offending “insect”. I assume you caught the spider at arm’s length and release it, in a similar fashion, out of the nearest window.

Now it was with some shock and disgust when a mate of mine told us he simply got out the vacuum cleaner and sucked up the offending critter. Oddly, a lot of the shock and disgust came from those in our circle who I knew to be somewhat arachnophobic.

So it got me thinking: what is it with spiders that we honour them above all other bugs? Happy to swat a fly, chop a worm and stamp on ants but render no harm to our eight-legged friends. This appears to be ingrained in British culture, and is adhered to whether you hate them or not. I wonder, do other cultures feel the same?

Personally, being a bit of a born again Nature Boy, I tend to give safe haven to all critters. I even risk life and limb to allow an angry wasp free passage from inside to outside my window (though I have drawn the line at times with the persistent blighters when dining al fresco – there are limits).

17 Majestically Useless Items from the Innovations Catalogue