I like watches.
I'm not really a jewellery person. No bracelets, chains or rings beyond the necessary one. I'm very much a less is more sort of person.
But I do like a watch.
Over the past decade I've bought — and subsequently sold — rather a lot of them. Each time I've been absolutely convinced:
This is the one.
It never is.
I've bought luxury automatic watches from shops where they sit you down in a comfortable chair, bring you a glass of champagne and quietly reassure you that you've made an excellent decision.
"That's a great choice, sir."
Of course it is. You're about to relieve me of several thousand pounds.
I've also bought £50 quartz watches shipped halfway around the world from China.
And pretty much everything in between.
I've even bought the exact same watch, sold it, missed it, bought it again... then sold it again.
More than once.
Lucy understandably finds this behaviour slightly baffling.
Why not just collect them?
Because I'm not a collector.
Having lots of things doesn't give me pleasure. Quite the opposite. Having more than I need somehow creates a tiny amount of background stress.
If there are six watches sitting in a box, five of them aren't being worn.
That bothers me.
So I sell them.
Which works perfectly well until, six months later, I decide that perhaps Watch Number Three was actually the one after all.
And buy another one.
You can probably begin to appreciate Lucy's position.
What I'm actually looking for
One watch.
A special watch that I genuinely love and can wear everywhere.
Walking along Bamburgh beach.
Out for dinner with Lucy.
Standing in the rain at Cragside.
At a wedding.
Walking Meg.
Sitting outside somewhere with a coffee.
Something that gradually picks up little scratches and marks from all those ordinary days that don't seem particularly important at the time.
And perhaps, many years from now when I'm no longer around, someone I love might occasionally pick it up.
They'll notice the scratches.
Maybe remember seeing it on my wrist.
And think...
That was Dad's.
Or Granddad's.
That's the watch I'm looking for.
Which brings us neatly to my latest completely rational and carefully considered purchase that I definitely don't need.
The Murph
The watch currently causing the problem is the Hamilton Khaki Field Murph.
More specifically, the new 38mm blue dial version — reference H70405140, which I've already added to our Curated picks if you want a closer look.
Or, as the watch world has rather inevitably christened it:
The Smurph.
Unfortunately, I already have history with the Murph.
I bought the original 42mm black version when it was released.
Loved it.
Too big.
Sold it.
Then Hamilton released the 38mm version.
Bought one.
Loved it.
Something wasn't quite right.
Sold it.
Missed it.
Bought another one.
Sold that one too.
In fact, as I write this, I currently have a friend's 38mm Murph sitting here because I wanted to spend some time with it again and see whether I'd been wrong all along.
Perfectly normal behaviour.
Then today I saw the blue one.
Oh dear.
Come to the deep...
Every now and again you see a watch and something happens.
You can't really explain it.
It's not about specifications or brand names or what someone on YouTube thinks about it.
It just speaks to you.
Actually, this one doesn't speak.
It whispers.
Like a mermaid calling quietly to a sailor from somewhere beyond the rocks.
Come to the deep...
Except mine is apparently saying:
Come to the Metrocentre...
And there is something about that blue dial.
Under some light it looks almost black. Then the blue appears.
Add the simple field-watch numerals, those cathedral hands, the steel bracelet and that lovely 38mm size...
Bugger.
The Apple Watch problem
For the past year I've mostly worn an Apple Watch.
And living at the coast, it's genuinely useful.
I can glance at my wrist and see the tide. I can track a walk. Check the weather. See how badly I've slept.
All very clever.
But there's something slightly depressing about knowing exactly how its life will end.
The battery will gradually deteriorate.
A newer model will arrive.
Then another.
Eventually software support will disappear and the clever little computer on my wrist will become another obsolete piece of technology sitting in a drawer.
It can never really become my watch.
Nobody is going to find it in a drawer thirty years from now, wind it up, put it on their wrist and think of me.
They'll probably wonder if anyone still has the correct charging cable.
So here's the problem
I need to see the blue Murph in person.
This is important.
Because photographs lie.
A watch can look spectacular online and completely leave you cold when it's sitting on your wrist.
Conversely, occasionally you put one on and immediately think:
Ah.
That's what I'm looking for.
Unfortunately, achieving this requires getting Lucy to Newcastle or the Metrocentre.
Without arousing suspicion.
This is considerably harder than it sounds because we go proper town shopping approximately once or twice a year.
I therefore need a plausible reason.
"Fancy going to the Metrocentre on Saturday?"
Immediate suspicion.
"Why?"
"Oh... no reason."
Game over.
The operation needs considerably more thought.
Perhaps Lucy needs something.
Clothes?
Craft supplies?
Flynn undoubtedly needs something. Babies always need something.
I could even suggest lunch.
Although after all these years together, I'm reasonably certain Lucy can identify the difference between Tom suggesting a nice spontaneous day out and Tom having an ulterior motive before I've finished putting my shoes on.
So for now I'm saying nothing.
I'm researching.
Quietly.
Strategically.
And if at some point over the next few weeks Lucy happens to find herself walking past a Hamilton dealer with me...
Well.
Sometimes these things are just meant to be.
Tom's note: If you're reading this, Lucy, the entire operation has been compromised.
