BST

Well it’s officially British Summer Time (BST) - we moved the clocks forward last week. And accordingly people in the neighbourhood have broken out their shorts (without checking the size from last year still fits comfortably), their sandals – or crocs (without bothering to moisturise their feet) and their short sleeve tops (without any thought to co-ordination of colours with the aforementioned shorts or footwear).

The sunglasses (mine included) have been out for a few weeks now, but since the official winter knell has been sounded we have all been subjected to an increased visibility of more pale and un-shapely bodily parts than you see on an oven ready chicken; it’s not natural or pleasing to the visual taste buds.

I think I may have to stay inside until the sun has worked its magic on the skin tone of the nation ... or they decide to buy copious bottles of moisturiser, because invariably the first few weeks of BST have a history of making me dry heave.

BST! Who wants it? Not me. I’d prefer to see (and feel) lots of hot sun then I really know that summer has arrived.

I think someone ought to inform Her Majesty’s Government that the summer does not start and end when they dictate it ... unfortunately for them the days of the empire are over and the sun independently rises and sets (and selects its own temperature dial).

Now, where did I put my jacket?

... Or should I be a good Brit and follow the local customs?

Hmmm.