You, bloody farmer, making me get up an hour earlier than I want to so you can plough your fields and scatter. If that were a phrase used euphemistically I think I’d be ok with it but you really plough and really scatter and surely it makes no difference what time the clocks say in the city of men because you do your farmy stuff by the light of the sun.
By which I mean my body is still all confused and spiteful after last weekend’s springing forward or the clocks. But also after a week in which I’ve carted myself to London and back in a day, had an exhausting session of physio, walked about a bit on the hilly places of the university (which is everywhere on campus) and lifted cups of beverages and forkfuls of cake in order to exercise my biceptuals.
Then again, my body is always convinced the time is a quarter to ow, so much so that it has written the time down on a piece of Eccles so that it can show me what time it is whenever I want to know. Unless it isn’t a quarter to ow, in which case it won’t show me the piece of Eccles.