Mike inherited an old wall clock from his grandfather. It must’ve been decades old; older than that even. It had weights that needed pulling up once a week. It would chime on the hour and ring out the o’clock.
For Mike the hourly chiming of the clock was like an old friend. Once, when the clock broke down and a part had to be replaced (these old clock hands should never be turned back because it harms the mechanism; simply stop the clock for the appropriate number of hours if it runs fast) he missed its comforting chimes. “Chime-Charm”, Mike called it.
It always chimed seven while he was have breakfast, because that’s when he had breakfast! And then he started saying funny things to himself while it chimed:
– If the toast doesn’t pop up in the toaster before the seven chimes finish chiming, then it’s going to be an unlucky day for me
– If the kettle doesn’t boil before the chimes stop, then I’ll possibly have a terrible car accident in the coming week
– If … if … if …
Mike knew he had to do something about this silly neurotic fixation he was developing. He must get away from the clock for a while. He took his plate of breakfast muesli out onto his balcony where he couldn’t hear the chimes.
– If I don’t see a seagull fly overhead before I finish the muesli…
– If … if … if …
Listen to the story being read HERE!
(Note – please feel free to comment, but I am having a break from commenting or responding to comments. Thanks. Have a happy day!)
Weave a Web 
He’d best finish before the gull drops one
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If the gull drops one and it misses me…
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Wow! I get to comment here, don’t I? It is so unfair to gag you readers, Bruce! A blog without comments is like a phone without an Internet connection… Scheherazade wouldn’t appreciate what you did.
On the other hand, I too used to do exactly what Mike would do. If the 10:00 O’clock train doesn’t pass within this minute, I’d flunk the test! (We twice lived in houses facing the railway tracks for several years.)
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Just looking back and seeing that I hadn’t recommented to your comment! When I was 11 years we moved from way in the country (where I never saw a train) to another place – which was next to a railway line. In the dark hours of the first early morning a goods train passed. I rushed from my bed and jumped into my older sister’s bed. “It’s the end of the word!” I screamed. “No,” she said, “It’s a train.” “It’s the end of the word,” said I.
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