EEvery week I visit my old mother. We then discuss what has happened in her life (The oleander on the balcony is almost in bloom, Mrs. Siebinga from number 48 has moved to Exloo) and in mine (a flood disaster of biblical proportions that caused significant damage not only to our upstairs house). but also caused the downstairs neighbors fuse box to explode, yes, to explode, while they were just looking inside to see what could be going on that all the light had gone out; it is a miracle that no thaws occurred) .
And then there were the worries about my mother’s watch. It had been standing still for about twenty years, which wasn’t a bad thing, because at 85 a watch is no longer vital, especially if you have an iPhone on the coffee table. She had barely worn the watch, I noticed, because the leather strap was still stiff and like new. But there was a battery in it, and a battery can run out, with the most terrible consequences; maybe not quite to the fuse box of the neighbors downstairs, but still.
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Sylvia Witteman prescribes de Volkskrant columns about daily life.
For weeks, months, years I had promised to take that watch to a watchmaker, but yes, something always came up, see above, until, in a still lost hour, I took the bull by the horns and ‘battery watch Amsterdam’ googled.
A little later I cycled to Nieuwe Nieuwstraat, a deceptive name for what must be one of the oldest streets in the city center. There was indeed a watchmaker who promised to do his best. The ‘done while you wait’ turned out to take half an hour, which I decided to break at a Primark branch around the corner.
I’ve never been to Primark before, and I hope you do the same. Five floors of Dantesque horror, full of screaming, grabbing teenage girls, disposable textiles made by children’s hands, stoned tourists with bulging backpacks, crying babies and slippery young people marinated in Ax Dark Temptation & Wild Green Mojito.
When I walked out after half an hour, I had given up all hope, including about the watch; but the latter turned out not to be so bad. It ran again! Frustrated by Primark and the flood disaster, I cycled to my mother.
A moment later I showed her the lively bobbing second hand. “Now you can wear the watch again!” I said festively. “Yes,” she replied. ‘But the strap is so stiff…’, and she stared into the distance, past the almost blooming oleander; yes, maybe as far as Exloo.
