The heart of the matter ...

Our late 18th century long case clock stands imposingly in the hall in normal times. But with the arrival of the builders imminent, we thought it unwise to leave it on their path from the door to the wall that's to be removed and replastered, and yesterday we undertook the terrifying task of dismantling and moving it. At least, Mr PB did the actual dismantling - I merely held on to the shoogly bits and stopped the cords on the weights flying about.

The strange thing is that it's such a whited sepulchre: the front and sides are gleaming inlaid wood, polished and smooth; the face behind its original glass door looks old, but perfectly fine. It's only when the top comes off, with the glass that seems to be pouring downwards, that you see the chips in the paint round the dial; it's only when you lift the action down (dislodging the pennies that hold it level) that you see this terrifyingly intricate movement behind a shabby brass plate, mounted on the even shabbier black-painted reverse of the face, that you see the paper stickies left by the clockmaker when it was being overhauled. Two of them say "Findlay", from my parents' time; one says "McIntosh" from when we had it refurbished eleven years ago.

Now the action is lying on the spare bed; the case is facing the wall to avoid scratches (the back is extremely shabby also); the pendulum is on a windowsill; the weights are hidden out of the way; the vulnerable glass and wood top case are likewise concealed from random feet. I suppose we'll be able to find all the bits - even the coins - when we come to reassemble it ...