British Winter Time

... it is stock still outside - nothing moves. Late leaves hang limp, cats lie torpid, cars stand immobilised. Lights out - everyone's abed.

Six of the Sunday morning, seven by the old summer clock - the house is cool and the sky fixed grey. Yet, when I went to sleep less than six hours ago the wind was wild, idiots fired fireworks and neighbours partied in their garden. I say partied, but it sounded more like all-in, pro-celebrity disputation. Loud, aggressive voices, snapped by the wind. Pointless points they'd all heard before - and no-one was listening because they'd heard it all before...... before. It was loud enough that Pen scrabbled in the back of the wardrobe for ear-plugs.

But now, nothing moves.

Perhaps this is the bonus hour - the one that all, save insomniacs, bless - "well at least we get an extra hour tonight".
But, what if it doesn't happen at two in the morning when you change the clocks, like the BBC tells you? What if it happens now, when the morning lies, as someone once said, "like a patient etherized upon a table"?