A few days before we all found out we couldn’t go anywhere, my watch stopped. An unrecognisable and unwanted premonition of what was to come, the hours no longer passed in a predictable way on my wrist, and instead they were confined to a tiny wicker pot next to the bed. This watch is mostly a gold-coloured metal, one that tarnishes, the wrist-strap narrow and embossed, gently snaking with a sort of latching clasp to secure it to one’s arm. I found it perhaps a whole four years ago in a second-hand shop in London, its hands motionless, not knowing whether it would function properly but figuring it could be mended if it turned out the time could not be told.