“It’s already getting dark,” the taxi driver states somewhat mistaking what darkness is.
“You mean it’s getting less light,” I offer – in a parallel universe where I am (more of) a twat (than I am in this one).
He – in reality, this one – continues, “they’ll be putting the clocks back in a couple of weeks.” He says in an accusatory way. (It’s more than four weeks, actually chief.)
I don’t know what to say to this. Am I meant to agree with him, angry at the notion of British Summer Time? Am I meant to defend British Summer Time? Surely it’s there to help the farmers. Or the farmers don’t like it. I know somewhere it has something to do with farmers.
I guess someone thought it through at some stage. And if it was bad for farmers then I guess someone had to be disgruntled. Why not them? They can take out their frustration beating a sheep to death with a cow’s hip. Surely. And if it was good for them then why the fuss?
You would think it would be good news for a taxi driver. People finishing work in the dark must, simply must, mean more work for your cabbie. Perhaps he doesn’t like the work. Maybe he doesn’t like driving in the dark.
Why can’t I just punch a postcode into a touchscreen and the driver not engage with me?
I don’t mind Greenwich Mean Time, me. I wish it didn’t get such a hard time. My cab driver won’t be the only one bemoaning the nights drawing in. Every cunt will be at it.
Well I’m sorry everyone, earth falls over a bit as it orbits the sun and makes the days get shorter. You’re fucking happy enough crowing about how it is still light at ten p.m. having a cider with some ice in it. Well you can’t have one without the other. Bastards you are.