Denis Lehane: Worse than jet lag as we lose an hour

Who was the bright spark who came up with the idea that we lose an hour’s sleep on last Saturday night? Whoever he was, he should be sacked.

As ideas go, it’s about as dumb as inviting Jeremy Clarkson to your vegetarian supper.

At this time of the year, progressive farmers like myself have our days filled with work and chaos of every description. And in an effort to recharge the batteries, we need every hour under the duvet that the man above will permit.

So, for an hour to be snatched so cruelly from our grasp early on last Sunday morning was an abomination of the highest order, I feel.

If our Government has any sense at all, I feel it should organise an Oireachtas Committee to look into the issue of the stolen hour, and see if there is any way that it can returned to us.

Anyway, to make matters worse for me, last Saturday night, didn’t I go out for a few pints, forgetting entirely that it was the night of the vanishing hour.

On returning home, sure my head had only hit the pillow when the alarm sounded, and my missus informed me that it was time to rise and shine.

“But tis still dark, woman,” I cried out, “or have I gone blind entirely?”

‘Tis summer time now, boy,” says she, and she elbowing me out of the bed.

“Summer time, my backside,” I moaned, as I shoved on my wellingtons and entered a darkened yard to start my Sunday morning chores.

The reason I was up so early was to do with religion. You see, for the month of March, it’s my duty to take up the collection at mass. Needless to say, it’s a job I take very seriously. So my Sunday mornings can be hectic enough already, without the addition of some baboon tampering with time.

Anyway, last Sunday morning, I went to fed the calves and, as it happens, I have a few calves at the moment that need a bit of cajoling to get them started.

I have this Friesian bull calf I purchased a short while back who suffers from a bad back. And like any fellow with a bad back, he cannot be rushed. He needs time to sort himself out.

“He’s selling as he stands,” the auctioneer cried out that day at the mart, and always on alert to the call of the auctioneer, I took note of the hunch-back, as he hobbled into the ring.

“Well,” says I to myself, “his bad back won’t pose any great problem for me, as I won’t be requiring him to do any heavy lifting, or hang wallpaper.” So I raised the old hand and bought him for next to nothing. As long as his bad back didn’t prevent him from drinking milk, which it certainly doesn’t, I felt he would be worth the gamble.

And then, buoyed up by my success with Quasimodo, last Friday didn’t I pick up a fellow with wobbly legs.

So now, between the monkey with the bad back and your man with the wobbly feet, ‘tis a right old ‘Dad’s Army’ of calves that I have.

So last Sunday morning, on account of missing that vital hour of sleep, by the time I had finished with the feeding of my calves, ‘’twas far from collecting money at mass I was fit for.

I was only fit for the bed, and that elusive hour of sleep which would have made all the difference.