MOST people are no doubt counting the days until the clocks go back on March 30.
For starters, it’ll stop your those bores who have nothing better to talk about banging on about ‘those dark winter nights’.
Then again, the same people will soon be startling you with the revelation the ‘evenings are getting so much lighter’ all of a sudden.
Why does the wonder of the clocks going forward/backwards endlessly surprise people in this country, despite its entirely foreseeable annual occurrence?
Anyhow, though the masses will, I’m sure, welcome leaving work in the daylight, I’m going to miss ‘those dark winter nights’.
See, I feel I’ve become part of something of an elite club in the last few months – an almost undetected underbelly of society.
Let’s face it, sanity dictates no right-minded human is going to spend January and February evenings trotting around Poole and Bournemouth.
It’s dark (well documented), mainly cold (sub-zero at times), and sometimes flipping wet (hail ‘massaging’ your face anyone?).
But for those who do dare venture on to the streets and promenades, there is this unwritten mutual respect, a secret code of honour evident in people’s faces.
I’m not just talking runners here, but hardy dog walkers - who will take Rover out come hail or sleet – night workers, cyclists, even beachcombers with their metal detectors.
We all know it’s a daft place to be, and a daft time to be doing it, but we do it all the same.
You’re always guaranteed if not a cheery smile, then at least a knowing grimace of recognition from a similar wind-beaten soul as you pass them.
But come March 31, the sun’ll come out, the evenings will light up and we’ll be sharing our nocturnal world with everyone else again.
BST? Bleedin’ summer time.