Spring forward

March 27, 2011

And suddenly it’s not ten o clock. It’s eleven o clock. After many weeks in the wilderness we stumbled across a strange land. A land of evenings that stretch out lazily into the middle distance, of gin and tonic in the afternoon, of going to the beach after work, of hazy twilights at eight or beyond. Me and Alice used to have a countdown, urging the days to hurry on through March until the clocks could go forwards once more. More momentous than any equinox, where time becomes detached from its stakes for a night, exists because of our belief in it, as transient as a pound note. When we were younger we’d spend the easter holidays camped out in Clarence Park every day with rubicon, golden syrup cake and Arthur’s entire music collection. Three weeks of lazy afternoons. In the depths of Finland winter, when Moomintroll believes he is to see the sun for the first time, he ties gold ribbons around his ears to greet the momentary crescent of sunlight over the horizon for a couple of minutes. The time is out of joint. Tie gold ribbons round your ears. British Summer time is here.


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