Text A: an original contemporary practice extract.

The clock in the town hall began striking again in March. For years, its hands had moved silently above the square, so the first noon chime made me look up from the market stalls. It sounded once for each hour, clear enough to reach the library steps but not so loud that conversation stopped.

My grandfather used to meet me beneath that clock after school. He was rarely on time, but he always arrived before the final stroke. Hearing the chime now brings back the small ritual of waiting there, watching the minute hand approach the top. I like that the sound belongs to everyone nearby, not just to those who happen to check a screen.

I understand that a clock does not need to announce itself to be useful. Its face tells the time perfectly well. Still, I would miss the chime if it vanished again. It gives the square a shared moment, and at noon I sometimes see people pause, smile, then carry on.

Text B: an original contemporary practice extract.

At twelve o’clock, the town hall clock interrupts the conversation I am having outside the post office. The chime is brief, but it arrives whether I am waiting for it or not. I have never needed a bell to tell me that an hour has passed; the clock’s face is already there for anyone who wants to look.

Supporters say the sound gives the square a sense of occasion. Perhaps it does for them. To me, it turns an ordinary walk into a moment organised by a building. The people around me do not all stop together: one keeps talking, another checks a phone, and a child covers an ear. That mixture seems less like a shared tradition than a sound imposed on strangers.

I am not asking for the clock to be removed or its face covered. Keep the hands moving and let people read them. If the chime is important to some residents, perhaps it could be heard at special events instead. A town can remember its past without making every hour an announcement.