“Why did you give that greasy criminal $20 for a watch that will stop working before we get on the plane?” my wife asked.
I shrugged. There were lots of reasons, none of them good, all of them bad, and most of them to do with my vanity and despair at not ever in my life being able to buy a real Rolex.
“Cobra-blood,” I said to her, rather than admit to my failings. “It makes me crazy.”
As it turned out, the watch worked for about a month. Long enough for someone to comment on my stunning Rolex, which I immediately laughed off and declared to be a fake I had bought in a dirty Hong Kong laneway.
My beloved wife had a view on that as well.
“What’s wrong with you? You buy a fake flash watch, then immediately admit to it being a fake to the first person to admire it. And don’t give me that cobra-blood crap. You’re drinking whisky.”
I mumbled some tosh about how buying fake watches was a thing everyone did when they went to Hong Kong, and it was a bit of a laugh, and how I am really a crap bullshit-artist, especially when I’m trying to pass-off $20-worth of rubbish as a $20,000 watch.
She looked unimpressed, as she usually is when I’m trying to mutter myself out of a hole I have happily dug for myself.