Something must done.
See, in the first half of the year, at some random time around Easter, which, let’s face it, is always at some random time, they take one of my hours.
I am generally very grumpy with them about this.
The sneaky, sneaky hour-stealing buggers, taking my hours away in such a fashion. They take one of my hours and sneak off with it, making my night, my summer and therefore my life one hour shorter- just as the best bit of the year is arrivng, just when the light is expanding, the warmness is nicing up gently and the summerness is coming in – they take an hour away.
How did they know I didn’t want that hour? How did they know I hadn’t already made plans for that hour? Sitting in the sun plans, or looking at the sea plans, or spring cleaning with all the windows open plans? Plans that might therefore had have to have been rearranged due to houral-stealage issues.
All summer I spend without that hour. The whole British summer which, for some reason, has always seemed quite short.
I now realise why the summer is short. It is short because some bastard has been rifling through my hour-drawer and has made off with what, let’s face it, could have turned out to be the most important, most pleasant and summarily most summerlicious hour of the whole summer.
They do this. Them.
I hate them.
You know why I hate them most?
I hate them most because just when they’ve realised their badness, their wrongness, their evil summhour-stealing ways, they try to give it back.
And when do they give it back?
Why, they give it back in the middle of the notoriously pissy British October, always in the run up to yet another pissy British winter, and always, Always on a Sunday. And if there’s any day of the week that doesn’t need to be any longer, it’s sodding Sunday, frankly.
I don’t want my October to be longer, I don’t want my winter to be one minute longer and yet they – they, damn them, if they show their faces round here I’ll make them wish they never grew genitals… – make it last a whole sixty! Sixty minutes! Sixty minutes of wet, cold, october – or, should you wish to take that extra hour in lieu, then sixty minutes of cold, wet, November; sixty minutes of cold, Cold December; or sixty extra wet, wet minutes of wet, wet January. February. March. Etc.
Go and stand in a very wet fridge. This is what they do to us! This is what they foist upon us, the pesky, pesky hour-foistering bastards! What argument could there be for me not to hate them, in light of this?
They are wrong.
I want the hour they took away in March, and I want it back in June, July.
I want all the hours back, I want them back all at once, next summer, on the nicest day.
In return, I am willing to return all the winter hours they forced upon me. They can take them back all at once, perhaps in January.
On a Sunday.
Or a Monday.
I don’t mind.