That whooshing noise you hear? It’s the sound of another weekend disappearing into the past without apparently touching the sides. It didn’t help that this weekend they made it a whole hour shorter (why the weekend? Why can’t the clocks go forward half way through Monday afternoon? I’d vote for that) but it seems like one minute it’s Friday evening and I’m locking up my bike, thinking there’s plenty of time to sort out the half detached mudguard and renew my season ticket, and the next thing I know it’s Monday morning, it’s dark, my watch claims, implausibly, that it’s time to get up and some blasted blackbird is singing happy blackbird songs outside my window.
Yet I must have done something over the weekend because when I tried to leave the house I found my bike bag in the bathroom, my oyster card in my fleece pocket instead of my work jacket, my bike lock draped over a chair, my phone feebly demanding to be fed and my wallet missing. And somebody’s changed all the clocks. And I’m late for my train. And of course whatever the weekend festivities were, they didn’t include renewing my season ticket or fixing my bike so I ended up pelting down to Vauxhall having retrieved most of my belongings (wallet was in my bag where I left it …) with one mudguard flapping merrily in the gale and the strut it was supposed to be attached to forming a sort of Boudicea type scythe for kneecapping unwary passers-by with.
I think they should break us in gently with British Summer time, I really do. And I’m really sorry about the kneecaps, I hope you get better soon …*
*no pedestrians were harmed in the making of this blog