They are small, flimsy-seeming, cheap-looking tubes of telescoping metal and springs. They have all the sex appeal of a road accident. And yet, these absurd things – spring bars – in one form or another, hold almost every wristwatch in existence on almost every wrist in existence, and they do it well, too. Like the earthworm whose toils we notice not, but without whose fertile castings and churning of the soil the fecund earth would grow sterile, the spring bar, in its ubiquity, endures. And one day, in 2015, some nutcase with time on his hands, wondered just who gave us this stalwart of horology … and that nutcase was me.