The Clock
Today we bisited the magnificent Musée d’Orsay — or as Dougie insisted on calling it, “The Big Art Clock House.” We’d heard whispers in the crepe line that the top floor held a clock so grand, so iconic, it practically insisted on being admired.
And it was! Absolutely worff the winding stairs and Dougie’s distracting insistence that the elebator “smelled funny”.
When we reached the giant clock window, we realized somefing tragic: none ob us were tall enuff to actually see the famous biew ob Paris fru the glass! There we were, the whole sparkling city laid out behind that beautiful round frame, and we could barely see past the lower edge.
But we are resourceful.
We did what any sensible trabelers would do — took turns climbing on each other’s shoulders. First Barry lifted Fish (which lasted approximately six seconds before wobbling commenced). Then I hoisted Dougie up, and he gasped so dramatically I thought he saw the Eiffel Tower doing a cartwheel. Turns out he just spotted “some real nice rooftops.”
Ebentually we got the stacking just right: Dougie on my shoulders, both ob us swaying like baguettes in the breeze, while Baxter steadied us heroically from the side. It was wobbly. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
And the biew?
It was breafftaking. Rooftops like frosted cakes, the Seine glinting, the whole city humming quietly beneaff us. We didn’t say much — just looked, and let the clock tick quietly behind us.
I fink we were all aware that the moment, like the museum, like the flaky croissant crumbs stuck in Dougie’s fur — was fleeting and perfect.
— Reuben. xoxo