When a day that you happen to know is Saturday starts off by sounding like Sunday, there is something seriously wrong somewhere.
I felt that from the moment I woke. And yet, when I started functioning a little more sharply, I misgave. After all, the odds were that it was I who was wrong, and not everyone else - though I did not see how that could be. I went on waiting, tinged with doubt. But presently I had my first bit of objective evidence - a distant clock struck what sounded to me just like five. I listened hard and suspiciously. Soon another clock began, on a loud, decisive note. In a leisurely fashion it gave an indisputable five. Then I knew things were awry.
Or, to put it another way - today, whilst we pootled around the reserve counting the Cetti's we bagged a mighty 58 Wheatears. I prefer the first version, albeit John Wyndham is currently doing about 500 rpm within his last resting place.
I wonder whether we could harness the 'spinning dead' as a renewable power source? I'd have thought it would be quite easy. Rig up a former author with a horizontal axle, a few gears and a drive belt or two; rewrite their life's work in the style of your average tabloid journalist; and 'Bob's your mother's brother' a plentiful, renewable and clean energy source. Another global woe solved (I'm available for collecting my Nobel prize on most week days between six and ten).