in Praise of Daylight Saving Time

Nobody ever has to wake me, I don't use an alarm clock, and I'm never late because of having overslept. But this second Sunday of March always gets to me in double spades because on this one night a year I don't get enough sleep and am groggy all Sunday long and sleep-deprived grumpy for days. Even though neither the sun, nor the moon, nor the stars and planets in their courses, nor this fragile earth our island home know the difference and have missed nothing, last night was the night that was, when every gardenia year, an hour is stolen from me. The law supposes that it is 2:00 AM and suddenly, instantly 3:00 AM. By law it cannot be 2:01 or 2:02 or 2:30 or 2:59 on this second Sunday morning of March; and the only recourse I have is Charles Dickens, if the law supposes that, the law's a ass. 


Just so this day in 2019, I'm sound asleep, needing nothing but an hour more sleep, and Linda taps me, and taps and taps, and says, "It's four o'clock." Well, it isn't four o'alphabet clock, it's three o'clock, and my body clock will resent this rude intrusion of The Law for days to come, because there ain't no way in aitch that I can get that hour back. And another cup of coffee won't help.