It was too good to be true. The watch I bought at the Amsterdam flea market has died. Vivid sun a-came streaming through the Cole bedroom dormer window on Sunday morning but a glimpse at my wrist bizarrely indicated that it was merely half past the merry hour of three. The blighter had stopped. I must add that reading the time on my new chronometer had become slightly tricky as, despite promises offered to me at point of sale, the item had turned out to be less waterproof than I had anticipated and seeking the exact hour had meant squinting through a damp and displeasing liquid film that had formed on the inside of the glass. What an unhappy purchase. I bought a doughty Timex yesterday that I trust won’t let me down. Unhappily I consider that I was seen coming with my wide-eyed West Country naiveté and eye for the bargain that never was. The unscrupulous vendor told me it was a good watch and I believed him. Hiss!