My house is not normal.
There are more clocks than I have bothered trying to count in our home. Every single one of them is on a different time.
Most of the ones in the living room are fifteen minutes ahead. The cuckoo in the front room is only five minutes ahead. The grandfather clock in the dining room is right on time, but the chime is off by three hours. The clock on the stove is about thirteen minutes ahead. My father’s alarm clock is about forty-five minutes ahead. The clock sitting on his dresser right next to the other clock is ahead, but I’m not sure if it’s by thirty or fifteen minutes. My alarm clock is inexplicably thirty minutes behind, but I don’t remember setting it that way. The clock in my bathroom ticks with a steady per-second rhythm, but never stays on time when wound and is now off by four hours. The clock on the wall of my bedroom has stopped running.
If we average all the times on all the clocks in the house, we’d probably get the right time. Not having the time or mental capacity to figure that out every time we need to know what time it is, we look at the clock on the screen of our landline phone, since it’s the one clock in the house that can’t be reset.
Don’t ask me to explain this phenomenon. I can’t. I’ve tried, but I can’t. All I can venture to guess is that there’s a different time zone for every room in the house. If not every three feet of the house. My house is an anomaly in the space-time continuum. My house shouldn’t exist.
My house should be in a Doctor Who episode.