Photo: Tibchris, Flickr
THE CLOCKS go back on Sunday. It happens every year. And every year it causes chaos in Lush Places.
‘Is it backwards or forwards?’ Mr Grigg asks.
‘Spring forward, fall backwards,’ I say, repeating the oft-heard mantra that ripples the length and breadth of Britain this time of year. Although why you can’t fall forward is beyond me. Tell that to someone who plunges head first down the stairs.
Anyway, I digress.
Most people hate the clocks going back. It’s the official end to British Summer Time. The only good thing is an extra hour in bed.
But I love it. It means cosy warm nights by the fire and slightly lighter mornings, which makes all the difference when you are walking two excited spaniels at 6.45am through a pitch-black field.
‘Are you sure?’ Mr Grigg asks. ‘Won’t it be darker?’
‘No,’ I say, patiently. ‘It’s spring forwards, fall backwards, remember?’
‘Yes, but doesn’t that mean the mornings will get darker?’
‘No,’ I say, wondering how this usually intelligent man is unable to get his head around the clocks-changing concept.
Although at this time of year in Lush Places, it seems to be forever Groundhog Day. Puzzled looks, shrugs, is-it-backwards-or-forwards-type questions in the pub, people turning up an hour late for Sunday lunch – nothing is quite so confusing for us here than the weekend the clocks go back.
Unless you happen to be in our village hall. Last weekend, after a particularly riotous party, the guests sober enough to notice were alarmed to see the clock reach one and then suddenly hurtle backwards at breakneck speed.
There was a cheer from the drunken ones among us who got ready to party all over again.
We were a little disappointed to find out later that the clock does this every night to wind itself up. Wind itself up? Wind up us up more like.
This year, the clocks go back on 31 October. Now that is spooky.