So the clocks went forward at 2am on Sunday, marking the end of British Summer Time. Today the sun will dip behind Southsea pier at 4.45pm, plunging journeys home from work into darkness.
The new status quo is a boon for some. Sufferers of Seasonal Adjustment Disorder (SAD) can start their annual demands for long-haul beach holidays on medical grounds.
Pale and interesting Goths need no longer ‘fear the heat of the sun’ as Shakespeare put it, and be forced to sprint home before they inadvertently pick up a tan.
The 25 per cent of the British population designated obese can shrug off unforgiving Lycra and retreat into chunky knits.
But for the rest of us it is a gloomy prospect. Being a glass half-full type, I have decided to focus on the silver lining.
If women are allowed to propose in a leap year (that’s next year by the way ladies!) surely we are entitled to do anything, within reason, with the extra hour we gain when we reset the clocks?
After all, no sooner does it finish than we can wipe the slate clean and live it all over again.
‘The world’s our oyster!’ I tell my husband.
‘Let’s do something outlandish! You could, for instance, put your discarded socks in the laundry basket or let me buy cheese from the Tesco Finest range.’
Being an open-minded chap, he mulls it over before replying: ‘Even the 24-hour Tesco will be shut at 2am on Sunday.”
Balloon rides over the Solent and bungee jumps off Spinnaker Tower are considered and then rejected. Finally we agree that we will start the hour when we wake and devote it to promoting marital harmony. I will dangle peeled grapes into his mouth between 0800 and 0830 and from 0830 to 0900 he will look at the wonky shelf.
Come Sunday, my beloved lies like Caligula on the bed, his tool box at his feet, while I cheerfully set to work on a bunch of seedless downstairs.
It is not to be, however. Before I reach the landing the peace of the house is shattered by a chorus of screaming from the nursery.
‘Damn,’ I chastise myself.
‘We forgot to reset the children.’