It must have been at least five years ago that we'd last seen her. It happened to be the first time also that we met, on that occasion. She was holding down the fort as it were in a co-operative antique group shop, and we were browsing, each of us, my husband and me, carrying an off-the-shoulder bag complete with one of our little dogs in each.

She too had two little dogs, sleeping in a back room until they became aware of our presence and curiosity compelled them to toddle out into the large interior of the group shop. She scolded them gently and ordered them to return to their place of solitude. They responded by looking beseechingly up at her, so she relented and allowed them to introduce themselves to us. Almost as tidy-small as our own, one was a terrier mix, a small inquisitive furball. The other, a short-legged, long bodied, longhair Daschund.

We had asked about her when we'd returned to the shop on subsequent trips, but were informed she had moved. We had, as sometimes occur with these brief encounters, established an instant rapport with her and had anticipated on future visits seeing her again. Now, finally we did, barely recalling her facial features but memory nudged when we heard a torrent of unaffected anecdotes trip from her lips.

Back then, the first time we'd come across her, we had bought an odd little 19th Century bracket-type clock, somewhat more sophisticated than a folk rendition, but having some of those elements in the tiny hand-carved finial of a lady's bust, tempered by finely inlaid turquoise shells embellishing the skirt. The movement was American, but the case was of a Black Forest manner. Boasting a price we could afford.

At this group shop part of the sales proceeds go to the support of the local humane society and rescue animal groups

This time around, we saw nothing among the jewellery, decorative porcelains, furniture, prints and paintings that spoke to us. Anything we could afford was "junk", anything worthwhile was out of our price range. Until my husband saw a display of late 19th early 20th Century Dutch and German wall clocks, one gaudy and expensive Cuckoo clock and a half-dozen wags-on-the-wall; one an elderly skeleton type, arresting his intensive attention.

He is an aficionado of antique clocks. And this was an exceptionally unusual display. Not being American in origin, yet design and workmanship impeccable, some discerning dealer had obviously travelled to Holland and brought them back with him, pricing them relatively reasonably. I had cautioned my husband to wait before committing lest he see items more desirable elsewhere on this grip, and he had agreed

But offerings at other, far-flung dealers and group shops appeared pathetically in the junk range but for one quality shop which had a still-life in the manner of the Dutch masters, but signed with a decidedly Spanish name; though i8t was of (undated) more recent vintage. Its modest price tag sealed its fate, to hang somewhere in our painting-crowded home. So we returned to look again at the clocks in an agony of choice-uncertainty. The while re-acquainting ourselves with our long-last and brief acquaintance.