It all started with a watch.
Just a regular ordinary diver’s watch that had stopped working a long time ago, the little cogs and gears all frozen in time with the small hand poised at the edge of midnight.
‘What’s the story with the watch?’ my co-workers would ask with a hint of playful humour in their eyes. There must be a story; they’d think to themselves, there must be some reason why I’d choose to wear a broken watch, hidden under my neat white shirt. The curiosity would be almost palpable, as one by one they’d all come over to have a look at the diver’s watch on my left wrist and see the tiny arms unmoving.
‘It’s just something my dad gave me’ I’d tell them neutrally and the playful humour would switch immediately to confusion or bewilderment. Some small part of them would whisper gently that this was a topic not to be discussed and best left for the gossipers and rumour mills.
I didn’t mind all too much, after all I’d probably do the same in their shoes. When you spend eight hours a day pouring through papers and turning in forms stories become a gateway into a more glamorous world.
 

A one act play on the infinite distance between two points - between today and yesterday.