On gender and a posh watch

My grandmother died in my first week at university. It was not sudden.

Her jewellery, the closest thing my family had to heirlooms, was mostly stolen in a burglary a few years later.

When the insurance claim was finally accepted, the compensation came as gift cards rather than cash.

My brothers and I each got a thing. I ended up with a posh watch.

The thing they don’t tell you about posh watches is that they’re an honest signal.

Just buying one isn’t the end. They’re fragile, and keeping one going means regular, expensive servicing.

They take resources to maintain, just like a peacock’s tail—an honest signal of resources to spare.

My watch loses two hours a week.

Getting it serviced would cost a significant amount of money. I made my excuses to the suited salesperson and left with the watch as-is.

The thing is, it’s a very masculine watch. It means a lot to me, but I’m not sure that the side of my identity it represents is one I want to invest in any more.

I’ve been thinking about names a lot recently.