This morning I was really pleased that the clocks had gone back an hour. Luxuriating in bed for an extra sixty minutes was a real bonus.
Now, at 5 p.m. I am not so sure. It’s all dark and gloomy outside and the thought of the threatened storms ahead is not a cheerful one. I feel as if we should be starting to cook our Sunday Dinner but Mr B says it’s too early, on account
of the clocks going back. He has put the oven on to warm up but that’s as far as he’s going.
The Middle of the Darling Daughters was going to come
down for the day with Young Faris but we decide it’s not worth the risk with the storms a-brewing so instead we spend a happy hour on Skype where The Boy demonstrates his skills ripping apart the plastic bag which once contained all the nappy sacks and
bashing his poor mother on the head. “Be gentle!” she admonishes him, sweetly. Bash! is his response. There are many, many different ways of showing one’s love and for the moment this appears to be Faris’s preferred method.
We make plans for Friday when they will make their deferred visit. We will go to the park, we agree, so that I can see the mega excitement generated by a turn on
the swings. Jack and Hazel will be there too, with their Mum, the Youngest of the Darling Daughters. It’s Half Term Week!
When I was a Working Gal, all those
many merry months ago, I could always tell when the local schools were on half-term because my drive to and from work was so very much easier. The long Summer Holiday was sheer pleasure for that reason. Now I only know it’s half term when I look out
of the kitchen window in the morning and there are no mums pushing buggies and urging lazy ones along; no kids on bicycles riding (illegally) along the pavement; no little gangs of teenagers with their shirt tails hanging out, ties at half-mast and trendy
bags slung casually over their shoulders as they dawdle past our house.
I like the fact that our kitchen is at the front of our house. It’s good for
nosey-parkers like me. Once I’ve watched all the school-children off to school, I can turn my attention to the dog-walkers who seem to belong to a little club of their own. If I had a dog, I would be able to join the club. It would certainly
keep me fit, if nothing else. I would have to learn how to throw a ball straight and true, a skill which has escaped me all these years, along with catching balls and putting my head under water. Not necessarily at the same time.
At just before 9.30 a.m. I watch all the senior citizens make their leisurely way to the bus stop at the end of the road. Where we live you can’t use your bus pass until 9.30 a.m. –
it’s why we bus-pass holders are known as “Twirlies” on account of the number of us who attempt to board a bus at 9.25 a.m. asking, beseechingly, “We’re not t’wirly, are we?”
It’s unfortunately also t’wirly for dinner, although my stomach is grumbling because it thinks it is dinner time. All the clocks (attended to by the ever conscientious Mr B) say there is still an hour to go before
we can sit down and enjoy our roast beef and two veg, even though it’s now pitch-black outside. My body clock is all confused.
By the way, that skeleton
is still hanging on the front door of the house across the road. I guess he will be there till Hallowe’en now. I am getting quite fond of him, on greater acquaintance. I like the way he points his toes, like a boney ballerina. I like the resigned
look on his face. Or skull, I suppose I should say.
It’s the same look of resignation that you’ll see on my face, as I wait for dinnertime.
Whose idea was it to put the clocks back anyway?