Twiglet in the Dark

"I wonder how the airlines deal with the changing of the clocks?" I mused.  Our flight was leaving at 6am, and we had to catch the coach to the airport from Beloved Daughter's school at one-in-the-morning.

She and I were enjoying a typically disgusting unhealthy lunch prior to a swim at my awful health club, now that term was over, to commiserate the fact that after all that, she hadn't made it into the school's music competition final. Which, incidentally, was won by an excellent cellist, aged eight, playing a Grade 1 piece immaculately.  The top music scholar going home with nothing, despite a particularly impressive advanced performance on her violin.  But who am I to judge. 

"The flight's tonight - the clocks go back tomorrow," Beloved Daughter casually replied, finishing off her microscopic 'for adult tums' spag bol, ordered off the kids' menu.

"No, it's tomorrow," I said.

"No, it's tonight," she said.

"Well I'm going for a swim and we'll find out when we get home," I said calmly, rattled.

And so it was that I found myself driving around central Dartmoor at 10pm, with the dog and his food and cage, mobile in hand, desperate for a signal, running out of petrol, trying to find someone prepared to look after him for a week to whom I could deliver him immediately, two hours to go before we had to catch the coach.  My landline was down again, thanks to my old mates, BT.