It creeps into homes, into clubs, into pubs, into offices, into cars, into anywhere and everywhere that there may be people. And it steals, without compunction, without guilt, without prejudice from one and all, old and young, rich and poor, black and white, men and women. As swiftly as it comes, it is gone, laughing as it leaves behind mass bewilderment and internal body-clock confusion in its wake. The populace awakes the next morning, says, "Eurgh, that's really the time, isn't it?" and grumpily shifts its way about it day.
Whoever invented British Summer Time is a git and needs a swift kicking. I want my hour in bed back, you pasty-faced swine. British Summer Time? Bloody Stealing Time, I say. Oh yes, not everyone could come out with an absolute zinger like that, I know, but hold your applause.
Now, go away and let me grump my way through the day. Some of us have got to go to work, you know...
(Yes, I did just write a post moaning about losing an hour's sleep on the weekend that I have to go to work on a Sunday. Well spotted.)