Markers of time...

My lovely lady is preparing for the spring move from here out to the 12. That means going through our boxes of "stuff" packed away in the basement. It's both comforting to rediscover things we had forgotten but also a little un-settling to realize how fast that world is vanishing in the rear view mirror. Wristwatches for example. I'd forgotten how I used to tell the time before my cell phone permanetly attached itself. Who wears a watch these days? How I miss my Timex, now I'm reminded of it. Which also marks a change in my values. Barrometers. When did you last see a barrometer hanging on the wall? It used to be a daily ritual to check the glass to see what the weather was doing. No more, now we push a button and it's all fed right to you. Darts. More than anything I miss my darts and what they represented. As British as bacon and eggs, we were naked without a pack of darts in our back pocket on a Friday night down at The Tom Cobbly, The Ring of Bells or The New Inn. Some of us had our special darts that were lucky and threw better than others but really it didn't matter if we won or not. It was about being there, a part of it. Looking back, it's the strangest of things that stick in the brain. Pubs that are 300 years old. Walls made of Cob, 3 feet thick and flagstones on the floor. Sitting by a massive open hearth fireplace with the flames flickering off the walls. The Grandfather clock's slow measure of our lives and the barrman standing behind the glistening fairy land of light, reflecting off the glasses hanging above the bar. But most of all..... the silence. No pounding rock music, no big screen sports blaring, no waitresses interupting your thoughts. Just the fire crackling and the clock marking the quiet murmer of hushed, respectful patrons enjoying their night down at the pub. That's what I miss.