A watch. It's a tool. It's an instrument. It's a way to avoid the "Time for you to get a watch!" jokes when you see your eight year old cousin on Christmas.

Hello, Michael. No, don't get up. We don't want to wake your lovely wife and kids. Oh, don't you recognize me? Maybe it would refresh your memory if you thought back to third grade. Back then, I had blonde pigtails and a cute pink dress. That's right, Michael. I'm Sally, the girl who sat one row over. The girl who, roughly twenty years ago, asked you what time it was. And what did you answer? That's right, Michael. "Time for you to get a watch."

Well, guess what, Michael? I did get a watch. A Converse watch. It's nice, it tells good time and it looks good on my wrist. But I never got over the shame. Do you know what it felt like, to be on the other end of such a razor-sharp wit? Do you know how many friends stopped talking to me? Do you know how hard it was to face my father, a temporal physicist and lover of Doctor Who, and tell him why nobody would tell me the time? He broke down in tears, Michael. A grown man, in TEARS.

So I planned, Michael. For exactly ... nineteen years, eighteen hours, thirty-five minutes and about twenty or so seconds I've planned. Knowing that one day, I'd walk into your life, break through the kitchen window, sneak into your bedroom and say YES, MICHAEL, I DO KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS, BECAUSE I DO HAVE A WATCH!!

I feel this is a sort of closure, Michael, thank you. I've left my number on the kitchen table if you ever feel like talking again. I'll count the minutes, because I can, because I have my lovely Converse watch. Don't bother to untie yourself. I know the way out.

Oh, and full disclosure: my Facebook status says "In a relationship" but don't pay attention to that, I only leave that there to keep the weirdos away. Great to see you again, Mike! Don't be a stranger!

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