If you found yourself particularly lonely at work, church, or anywhere else yesterday, the chances are you probably forgot about the clocks going back.
It happens every year ( for reason’s I’m still yet to fathom) and yet the extra hour in bed (for those without children – breakfast time is breakfast time in our house, no matter what the hour) still catches folk out.
I used to think of it as an hour’s grace – the chance on just one day a year to be 35 minutes early rather than 25 minutes late.
Then again I’ve never been one for good timekeeping.
Living in Over Wyre, as I did in my junior hack days, I had a whole arsenal of excuses lined up for my daily tardiness.
Most of them involved tractors, or escaped farm animals and some of them were even true.
I’ll admit, though, the back roads through Singleton, which I used to avoid the Poulton jams, didn’t really flood more often than Tewksbury and Shard Lane really doesn’t have tailbacks to rival those in Beijing.
And the main road was never, to my recollection, shut, forcing a lengthy trip over the little toll bridge out at Great Eccleston.
In truth I was simply a slave to the snooze button meaning that, even without breakfast, I’d never be able to make it in on time.
It just isn’t possible to travel from Preesall to South Shore in 18 minutes, no matter how hard you try.
My excuses were, however, small fry compared with others I’ve heard over the years.
My favourite is still the colleague who insisted, and still does to this day, she had sleep walked into a different room to her alarm clock - so bizarre I have to conclude it was true.
These days my timekeeping, partly down to the fact I live five minutes from Gazette Towers, is much better.
Outside of work, it’s even better – I’m always early at the pub, mainly because I’m usually the first person to give up and go home.
I even tried to duck out and go to bed on my own stag night – something I was never going to get away with.
I ended up being press ganged (quite literally given I was drinking with a gang of fellow hacks) into a mission to the local casino, where I promptly fell asleep in the smoking area.
Being early on my rare trips to the boozer does mean I end up hanging around quite a lot, especially given the timekeeping issues of my so-called friends.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” one once promised as I rushed out of a Saturday afternoon game at Fleetwood.
Having got back to Blackpool, changed and jumped on the bus, I then found myself left a billy no mates in our St Annes hostelry of choice, my mate, who lived around the corner, having not made it as far as the shower.
He’s so unreliable on a night out we’ve given him his own special time zone. He’s told to meet us an hour ahead of the allotted moment in the hope he will only turn up half an hour after everybody else.
What he needs, to keep us all off his back, is a good excuse.
I’ve got a cracker about a puddle and a herd of cows – all he needs to do is ask.