I was pretty sure, then, that I'd clocked him too hard, that he'd really lost it now.
I last came across Derek Creagh at a good gastropub in London, but I'd clocked him before.
And then he started on the nearest roundabout: more huge echium rosettes, which I'd clocked as I walked down from the Oval Tube station.
The next day I shadowed a round again, so by now I'd clocked up about 60 miles over three days and still not earned a penny.
I fought against it but, inside five minutes, I'd clocked the bottle-blonde in the plunging black cocktail frock and shades, with her boyfriend in his powder-pink T-shirt and shorts.
I haven't read the book; I did read the excerpt that was published last weekend on the Wall Street Journal's Web site (the headline: "Why French Parents Are Superior"): Why was it, for example, that in the hundreds of hours I'd clocked at French playgrounds, I'd never seen a child (except my own) throw a temper tantrum?
I'd clocked 200mph before on racetracks but never on a highway.
"Why was it," Druckerman writes, "that in the hundreds of hours I'd clocked at French playgrounds, I'd never seen a child (except my own) throw a temper tantrum?
I stopped looking at this restaurant as a place where I would just clock in and out of and began to see it as the foundation of our life.
Every day, he would clock in at one of the many unassuming, faintly Spanish-looking buildings in downtown Palo Alto.
A cooked breakfast with two "typical British" sausages and two rashers of bacon would clock up 130g, the NHS advises.
