They punctuate each Sunday. The first one in bed, when I’m still groggy. The afternoon one as we look through the window at the weekend world outside. The very last, carried down the hall before the lights go off.
The big hand’s how long it takes her to finish, a half-gasp, half-sigh after every mouthful, still piping hot.
The little hand’s how long it takes me. I like to wait - when it’s lukewarm I down it in one go.
My flat’s full of clocks; flip clocks, digital clocks, several in every room. But round here we measure time in cups.