Growing up (and I mean that as figuratively as possible), we used 24hr clocks. Always. If it didn’t have hands, it could count to 23. (I had hands, even BEFORE I could count to 23). I’m not sure whether it was Dad’s father’s army career (“mess is at 1700, boy!”, “shine those shoes. I said: SHINE THOSE SHOES”*) or whether it was the perpetual motion of my Mum’s family (“hmm, it’s Tuesday, she must be in Tajikistan, which is 7hours behind, carry the two…it’s 0340!”) that lead to the 24hr thing but as soon as I was old enough to warrant my own alarm clock (Six?) I was gifted with a glowing red LED 24hr radio alarm clock.
It blared Coming Home by Dire Straits each morning as I warmed my socks in front of my heater, waiting to hear if there had been any movement on the Theresa Cormack case.
The joy of having a 24 hour clock is that each hour, there’s a double. And you get “points” for noticing these and crowing loudly about it. Twice a day, there’s the opportunity to crow even louder: either 01:23 or 12:34 wins you even MORE points. I only just managed to restrain myself from txting my brother “it’s 10:10!!!” when I woke up in his flat on Sunday.
Tell me about your (crazy)family traditions**. *Before we head out to dinner, Dad can often be found in the laundry, with newspaper spread over the washing machine, and the shoe cleaning kit: scrubbing at shoes vigorously with black nugget whilst simultaneously reading the newspaper. Ahh, memories.
**For the love of whoever-it-is-you-call-upon-in-these-situations, distract me from the moronic incompetance of the telebanking operators for Česka Spořitelna, PLEASE.
Labels: Memories, Rant |
