28th January 2012
Extra, Extra!

One day this week, I found myself at a loose end, with half an hour to kill. Aware that one of my good friends was at home, on vacation from work, and feeling the need to sit down and chew the fat for awhile, I dropped in to see him.
“How’re you doing? Come in and have a seat. Make yourself at home,” he offered, “I’m just finishing off a small job here. Be with you in a minute.”
I did as he indicated, taking a seat on one of the stools in his kitchen.
“Someone’s just asked me to fix this clock for him, so I thought I’d have a go at it,” he mumbled, through lips which were tightly holding on to a couple of screws and a washer. “He’s a lover of antique clocks, just as you are, and knowing how handy I am at fixing things, he brought it to me so that I can get the movement going again for him.”
Well, it wasn’t the first time that I had seen this particular friend of mine in the process of “fixing” things: fans, lawnmowers, anything with a motor. He was one of those people who seemed to love tinkering with faulty motors, playing around with them until something gave … and the contraption in question finally surrendered, acceded to his superior ability and agreed to rise out of the ashes of its dead self, so to speak, and go on to better things. We’ve seen it happen before: the Phoenix of old springs to mind.
I watched him tinker about for another five minutes, and finally with a grunt of satisfaction, he indicated that victory had been achieved.
“There,” he exclaimed, “that’s it. Now let’s wind you up and see what gives.”
And as expected, we were rewarded, seconds later, with a constant ticking, accompanied by a regular movement of cogs and wheels within the interior of the clock.
“Good work,” I congratulated him. “Now I know what to do whenever one of my clocks goes on the fritz. I’ll just run it right over to you.”
“Sure enough,” he mumbled, “and I’ll fix it for you, no charge.”
Mumbled? Why was he still mumbling? And seconds later, I found out why, as he dropped the two screws and the washer into his hand.
“Hey, wait,” I exclaimed, “what’s that in your hand? How come you’ve got those parts left over?”
“Oh those? They’re not important. They weren’t really necessary. Look how the clock’s working all right without them.”
A sense of deja vu came over me. I had seen this happen before. The glove compartment of my car was filled with screws, bolts, washers and other assorted pieces which once were part of the motor, but which were apparently not “necessary” to the efficient running of the vehicle.