Yesterday, Palm Sunday, I woke up at 9.30, old time. I had already known that yesterday was the day we would switch time, so I was relaxed. I told Jod that we would move clocks back and she somehow bought it after briefly expressing doubt. I glanced at the iPod and it had automatically set time to something inscrutable, along the lines of, I don’t know, 11-fortysomething. I paid no attention.
After a proper lie-in, around something past 10 (old time), Jod suggested I popped out to church to get some palm fronds or laurel leaves (yesterday being Palm Sunday). I said “sure, it is only 9ish by the new time”. Then Jod turned on her mobile and protested that it had switched to Daylight Savings Time, one hour ahead. I calmly claimed that this cannot be: we were supposed to switch one hour back. Then Jod protested again that Daylight Savings Time actually involved setting clocks one hour ahead.
Then I realised that it was not October, it was March. Somehow, for more than half an hour — and without any substances involved whatsoever — the part of my brain profoundly hating the idea of an oncoming long summer in the Outpost coerced all other parts of it (i.e. the brain) to shut up. So, I was sure it was October, that we were leaving Daylight Savings Time behind and that we were preparing ourselves to enter the coolness of winter. But alas.