Every customer might be the one

A man who repairs watches in an old lane of Muharraq has a habit his neighbours tease him about. Every watch he returns is polished, set to the exact minute, and handed over in a small cloth pouch, as if the owner were the most important person on the island.

Most of his customers are not. Most are ordinary people with a cracked glass or a tired battery.

But he cannot tell which one is. The quiet man collecting an old steel watch might be the one who sends his brothers, his sons and half his friends. The young woman with her grandfather's watch might remember the shop for the next thirty years. Nobody walks in wearing a sign.

There is a familiar way of living that waits for the signal. The inspector is due, so the floor gets mopped. The relatives from abroad are visiting, so the good cups come out of the cabinet. Effort is held back for the occasion that counts.

The trouble with saving your best for the moment that matters is that you rarely know when it is. By the time you notice, it has already passed.

The sturdier habit is to assume it is always now. This customer might be the one. This piece of work might be the one people remember you by, or the last chance you get to show what you can do.

It probably is not. But behaving as though it is costs very little, and on the day it turns out to be true, you are already ready.