Wear and tear often bolsters the appeal of a vintage watch. Picture a chronograph dial aged to a warm tropical hue, or a pilot’s watch overshadowed with caramel patina. Rather than signs of decay, such well-worn details are celebrated as adding character and authenticity. Like the laughter lines on an old man’s face, they’re testimony to a life well-lived. Yet there are limits … It wasn’t an expensive watch. I’d picked up my Omega Seamaster about 20 years ago in Melbourne’s Block Arcade. Hailing from the 1950s, this was a pleasantly discreet timepiece, a steel-cased dress watch with gold hands and hour markers. Subbing out the leather strap for a NATO number, I wore it almost every day. Its untimely demise was hastened by the type of self-sabotaging hi-jinks that only blight your life when you’re an excitable 20-something and it’s the Friday night of a long weekend. The specifics of the evening’s shenanigans thankfully remain hazy. But it involved half a dozen bars and a godawful drum and bass club (where I somehow lost my phone), before I eventually stumbled back to my Sydney apartment just before 5am. Eventually surfacing in the early afternoon, I padded around the flat…
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