Virginia Barton

25 March 2017: BST

 

25 March 2017

 

britain-prepares-for-change-to-british-summer-time-a95dd5b2b8b2555cUnless you are an aficionado of times and tides, you may not know that BST, British Summer Time, begins on March 26th. Mother’s Day.

BST has come at last! On January 2nd we thought it never would. Now, we have until the end of October to revel in longer days, warmer temperatures and all things wide awake.

Poor old BH, who has a 100% Autumnal outlook on life, struggles not to object to the furious spring cleaning going on around his recliner — even the merry Moth Man throws him out while he sprays every nook and cranny. This hazardous procedure means quitting the flat for 2-3 hours. Heretofore BH has taken refuge with a chum, hiding the whiskey bottle in the basket of his walker. She, alas, has gone to The Great Big Cocktail Party in the Sky — BH’s euphemism for heaven. Now, he must skulk in the library while the moth man does his stuff. Windows and doors are flung open, the Hoover is a constant, and meals haphazard and scratch. The scent of ecological disinfectant overpowers that of the spring flowers spilling out of vases.

 

The thrifty will store them, carefully cleaned and folded in tissue paper. Some of us will press the heavies into as small a space as possible till next autumn. The rest of us will shove them to the back of the cupboard with every intention of having a good sort-out soonest. I speak of course, of winter clothes.

Women’s magazines tell you to throw out any clothes you haven’t worn for eighteen months. Most of mine are well over five years, some as old as fifteen; like the outfit I wore for our youngest daughter’s wedding. And the hat, bag and shoes. Who knows? I just might regain that shape…

SocksMy things are so weary it’s an insult to send them to the Charity shops. As for BH’s, they’re a disgrace. Men hate throwing anything away, have you noticed? Mind you, BH always bought quality stuff; even his underwear came from Marks and Spencer years ago, a shop noted for the longevity of its garments. (I remember sending a pair of socks back from Hongkong in 1961, outraged that one needed darning after four years! They were immediately replaced.)

A particular place will be found for these particular winter woollies at right. I found these precious pink tootsie-toasties tucked inside the front door one horridly chilly day. Hand-knitted, exactly the right size and a sweet colour, they will be cosseted in tissue paper and hidden beneath my winter nighties. But not until the time comes, it’s still parky hereabouts.

 

Incidentally, I was told that dried rosemary is a good moth repellent, and it has a lovely smell. Can anyone verify this before I decimate the bush?

 

 

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