It has been half a century, and over that period of time my husband has selectively acquired a number of time-pieces that continue to intrigue him. It is as though in some way, we capture the essence of the mystery of time, that elusive quality of which we never have enough to satisfy our needs both temporal and existential. Time is the past, the present and the future. We have lived it, are within it, and will depart it.

The number of young boys fascinated by time-pieces is as legion as the tales of a ingenious child satisfying his curiosity by taking a clock apart and re-assembling it. That attraction to the mechanical remains, although modern timepieces have long since moved on to other inventive means by which time can be accurately tracked.

For my husband, the presence of clocks from various parts of the world, throughout different eras, reflecting a variance of styles, and impeccable workmanship, allied with the mechanical process of spinning wheels is irresistible, and provides a valued aesthetic backdrop to his passion for such man-made objects in homage to nature's natural rhythms.

There are times that he goes about, a number of keys in hand, to wind the clocks and the sound of their ticking, their beautiful and sonorous marking of the quarter-hour, half-hour, hour, resounds softly through the house.

Their movements are a never-ending source of fascination to my husband, and when one or another of the clocks suspends movement for some reason, this is the signal for him to gather a few choice tools, and peer into the inner sanctum of time suspended. Over the years he has familiarized himself with various mechanical movements and can observe what may have gone wrong, make subtle adjustments and once again the clock is mobilized into ticking action.