I remember sitting on my grandmother's lap in her room that was dominated by a huge Welsh dresser. Laura, a cheeky green parrot in a cage near the window, joined in our conversation, and then sang, "Show me the way to go home." Grandma pointed to the Roman numerals of the clock on the wall, patiently teaching me to tell the time.
Reg used to chuckle at the old clock. "It would make a good advert for Lloyds bank," he would say. I know what he meant for as well as the ornate knobs and twists, a horse stood on top with forelegs on a platform like the Lloyd's horse.
There was a difference. When you looked closely this horse had a tiny horn between its ears. It was a unicorn. The clock was part of a batch representing the fables.
I grew to love its tick and mellow chime then one day when I wound it there was a click and the spring had broken. I was living at that time in Hayle so took it to a clockmaker in Penzance. He couldn't get another spring but adapted the old one. The snag was it was now too hard for me to wind. Even son-in-law Gerry finds it difficult but after his winding it ticks and chimes very well.
When other clocks have the hour changed it stays mute. Is it old and useless? Not when it exudes such warm memories.