Spunnet socker

Last weekend, I had afternoon tea with an elderly aunt of mine (I like to think of all elderly relatives as aunts or uncles, regardless of the fact that they are actually cousins god-knows-how many times removed). Like always, she offered (why is there no good English word for "угощать"?) me three different kinds of cake - which is, trust me, a lot of cake - and we talked about the paper weights made of Venetian glass that capture light in her windows (also, I marvelled at the freakishly elaborate classification of different types of murder in the original print of the codex of 1734 she inherited from some ancient grand-grandfather, but that doesn't sound nearly as poetic, does it?).

And then she gave me this. As a graduation present, an old, old ladies clock to wear as a pendant around my neck. It doesn't work, of course, nor can it be repaired. But it is so beautiful that I couldn't possibly help falling helplessly in love. And why, for that matter, could it not be twenty past ten forever.