What day is it? No bloody idea.
What time is it? Haven’t a bloody clue.
Help me, help me, I’m melting. I feel like a chocolate clock left out in the sunshine.
Of course there’s that whole thing about do they go back or forward an hour? I’m never quite sure, always forgetting that we should spring into spring and fall into autumn – or is it spring forward, fall backwards? I don’t know. It could be something else altogether like Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vane (is that rainbows?) or Men Very Easily Make a Jug Serve Useful Needs [People] (order of the planets - is Pluto a planet again?), or even People Desperately Need To See Pamela Anderson (some computer thing, although it conjures up an interesting image).
It’s all very confusing. I don’t know if I’m late, or early, on time, if it’s Friday, weekend, or a week next Tuesday. Should I eat breakfast, lunch, tea, or dinner and should I be asleep or awake? I feel like I’m in an episode of Doctor Who and falling down a Rabbit Hole.
When I woke up this morning I found that my alarm clock was in ‘being right’ phase. Yes, it really was 6.30 and not the 5.30 (with another potential couple of hours in bed) that I’ve grown accustomed to over the winter months. I never change my alarm clock because I like knowing that I have a sneaky sixty minutes or more to snuggle in bed on the cold and dark mornings. Obviously the change did not exactly fill me with joy. I was already tired, the result of staying up to until 1.00am watching bad films and running around the house changing clocks and losing a full hour in the five minutes that it took to do it; which hardly seems like a good deal.
Mind you, anything for the farmers, for they are blessed as they plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land. They need that extra hour in the evening (or is it in the morning?) to be able to see to milk their cows and hold up the traffic with their tractors.
British bloody Summer Time. I wouldn’t mind but it doesn’t exactly ring true given than most of our ‘’summers’ are one long extended rain storm. Maybe we should change the name to British Flood Time because that seems to be what happens during the summers these days. Oh for the days of standpipes, hosepipe bans, and shared baths.
Oh well, there’s no use complaining I suppose. In a week or so I’ll be used to this ‘new time’ again and stop knowingly saying ‘but it’s really five o’clock’ at four in the afternoon. I may even know what day of the week it is again or at least be able to differentiate one day from another by what’s on the telly once the bank holidays are over.
Here’s a thought, do you think I can get away with moving wine o’clock an hour or two forward?