I don’t know the person who sets British Summer Time.
What I do know is that they don’t like their mum.
0605hrs is when this happened this morning.
Thoughtful? Yes. Punctual? Yes. Achieved maximum impact? Yes…but not in the way idealised by Clinton Cards. I don’t object to Mothering Sunday. In fact, seeing Rowdy & The Bobcat’s excited little faces (in extreme and unnecessary close-up) in presenting their school and preschool gifts respectively actually lends weight to the argument for keeping it. (Rowdy, in particular has come on leaps and bounds since arriving home with a brown paper bag containing a cereal bar with the sellotaped label ‘Breakfast in Bed’. Before sitting down and scoffing it right in front of me.)
The one day where media (in general) supports mums nationwide in having vast amounts of chocolate just because AND an extra bit of kip and BST scuppers it good and proper.
Add to this that I was then barricaded from the kitchen while their creativity was spontaneously retriggered into more gift preparation (what mum does not favour a glue&feather parrot mask? TWO parrot masks? Bring it on).
THREE HOURS they were in there. Their dad tried to lob tea and biscuits in my general direction to placate the beast (the PMT, carb-deficient, early-roused beast) but to no avail. The cry of “Just 5 more minutes, Mummy!” didn’t offer any consolation either as their grasp of the concept of time runs roughly parallel with their grasp of the concept of where cows magically turn into beef burgers.
Bedtime should be oddles of fun.