My stopwatch
Arts or science? A false dichotomy, but at 15 I was forced to choose, and chose wrong: physics. The stopwatch inherited from my father heals the rift. Surprisingly heavy, it fits snugly in my palm, though the businesslike stainless steel case is so smooth I鈥檓 afraid of dropping it. The face, with its ivory colour and hand-painted numerals, contrasts nicely with the case. There are fifth-of-a-second divisions and a tiny minute scale that makes a satisfying click when I zero the hands. I use it to time songs, plays and dances. My father wasn鈥檛 much interested in songs and dances. I picture him at the research centre he directed, timing the stately fall of a steel ball through liquid to measure viscosity. With the stopwatch I can stop time, let loose my imagination and dissolve the barriers between past and present, myself and my father, arts and science.
Alex Barr
My Tibetan seal
In Nepal in 1971, aged 24 and hitch-hiking the overland trail, I bought a personal seal that had been owned, I was told, by a recently deceased lama at a Tibetan monastery. That night I had the most intense dream of my life. I entered a stone room in which this lama was lying dead on a table. Suddenly he came alive, ferociously raised a huge sword above me as though to cleave me in two, then just as suddenly handed the sword to me. From then, this seal, and the mental sword I was given through it, became a reinforced inner ability to discriminate and choose, and has played a key part in my life鈥檚 decisions: to go back to science, upon which I had turned my back, become director of a plant breeding institute, work in agribusiness development and consumer advocacy. This tiny object somehow gives me the confidence to choose wisely, to trust I am capable of discerning the issues and able to distinguish clearly between them, professionally and personally. The iron seal never rusts, even though for some years I wore it around my neck. The design on it is that of a seashell 鈥� maybe a conch 鈥� or perhaps a Tibetan cloud: it is a puzzle I will never exhaust. Shortly after this event, the opportunity arose to learn Buddhist meditation. I took it and have continued for 36 years.
Howard Dengate
My fridge
The mere sight of it and my stomach knots, my brain goes into a panic and my hand forms a fist. My legs and feet move ahead and I tell my body to turn around and go to another room. It rules my life. Most of us have things that spark memories, like a random smell on the street taking me back to a little English pub where tobacco, old leather and ale produced a peculiarly pleasant smell. My fridge, however, is bad. It鈥檚 evil. I despise it. My fridge owns me. When I don鈥檛 see it, I obsess about it. When I do see it, it evokes a battle I have been fighting far too long. The worst part is that living without it would kill me. Living with it has almost killed me, too. My fridge鈥檚 weapon doesn鈥檛 lie inside, my fridge鈥檚 weapon is me. For now, I continue to cringe at the sight. It wins each time we battle 鈥� whether I open it and binge, or avoid it and starve. But one day, hopefully soon, my treatment will bring me to a place where neither of us wins. No more battles. Ceasefire.
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Bella Ray
My tools
My real work is intellectual, and my 鈥渢ools鈥� are computers and software 鈥� I design silicon analogue chips. One of my relaxations is mechanical engineering: rebuilding and maintaining my two classic cars and repairing broken items for family, neighbours and church. Although most of my tools are relatively new, some are old, dating back to my father, father-in-law and grandfather. On Sunday I rediscovered my father-in-law鈥檚 bench vice 鈥� I have had it since he died 36 years ago. I recently repaired my mother鈥檚 wheelchair using my father鈥檚 spanners; she will like that when I tell her. To me, these tools are still their property and I always refer to them as such. I just sort of have them on extended loan, to be passed to my son when the time comes. I also have, and frequently use, the pliers I bought in Woolworths while waiting for the MOT test on my scooter. I was 17 then, and will be 60 soon, so that was half a crown well spent! All these tools are very similar to their modern equivalents, even the sledgehammer. Go into an old-fashioned hardware store, if you can find one, and you will see the identical type. That to me represents continuity of design, of practicality and of life.
