For a week or so I have been poised, ready for the clocks to go forward. This is mainly because I incorrectly thought they were due to go forward last weekend, having read something on the internet that suggested this was the case. After a while I realised this didn’t apply to UK clocks as we don’t put them forward until much later in the month. Which sums up one of the problems with believing things you read on the internet I suppose!
The cats and I are now poised for the clock change, something that is evident in a number of ways. I’ve started to feel a little less grumpy at the idea of getting up at seven, probably because I’ve been going to bed at about nine-thirty and usually waking up at six when it’s not quite light but there is a sort of pre-dawn glimmering outside. Caspar has gone into his lighter mornings routine by jumping on my head at around six or six-thirty, not every day yet, but a few times in the past week. If I wake up at six and very quietly open my Kindle Fire to read for a while, then about 30 seconds later Jacques fearlessly interposes his body between me and the screen, perhaps to safeguard my vision but more likely because he harbours a pathological hatred of my Kindle and has attempted on several occasions to shove it to the floor where he hopes to see it shatter into a million pieces.
Unlike many people, particularly the ones who often rant in the comments page of The Guardian, I welcome the change of clocks twice a year. It seems to me to be a gesture towards accepting the changing seasons as being important even in the modern world where we are somewhat insulated from their effects. Ideally I think there should be shorter school and working hours in the winter than in the summer as well, so that we don’t either have to go to work or come home from work in the dark. I usually have even less energy in the winter, and I’m sure that at some stage of our evolution we must have been hibernating animals.