Author: Gaynor Hall

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Books. And their covers.

The daily school run used to be a rather sombre affair – two thirds of the journey being completed in a deeply resentful silence born initially out of sibling conflict, and then cemented by maternal rebuke!

Having first barged passed each other on their way out to the car (often accompanied by some strategic ‘following through’ of the elbows and / or feet) the incessant verbal needling would then begin, serving as a brief prelude to one (or both) of them dealing a meaningful blow – and all of this before my key had even turned on the ignition! No amount of adjustment to the morning routine seemed to dilute the intensity of their testosterone charged rivalry and I used to arrive at work wondering quite where it had all gone so horribly wrong!

Now that my eldest is responsible for making his own way to school, however, the school run has changed beyond recognition. It has become a conversation rich environment in which my brain is frequently left scrambling for answers that are (almost) equal in quality to the myriad of questions posed by my youngest son. Being someone who deals in facts (rather than opinions) and takes things literally, he used to struggle to understand the meaning behind commonly used figures of speech. However, dogged determination on his part (no doubt bolstered by an unrelentingly competitive streak) has meant that he is now able to casually toss one or two examples into sentences of his own – delivered, I might add, with a generous helping of conceit!

One early example of the kind of confusion that can easily arise from speaking figuratively, was when (in response to a damning assessment of one of his classmates) I cautioned him not to ‘judge a book by its cover’. No sooner had the phrase left my lips than I was met with a plethora of reasons as to why the cover of a book was, in fact, a useful tool for deciding whether to read it…

Conceding that he had a point, I have since dropped that particular phrase from my ‘repertoire’. However, I was reminded of it again today when I saw a friend’s post on Facebook and very nearly fell foul of my own cautionary advice…

My friend had uploaded a photo of a chocolate bar and the accompanying caption was along the lines of being excited about eating it later. I’ll admit that I was about to scroll on when (sensing that there might be ‘more to it’) I realised that, far from being a frivolous post about harbouring a penchant for a particular brand of confectionary, this was a touching and well-written explanation about something (or rather someone) close to her heart. In this case, that chocolate bar had been given to her daughter as a birthday gift but instead of keeping it for herself, the little girl had chosen to give it to her mum.

Further explanation is needed, however, because this is a young girl for whom life did not begin favourably. Having suffered untold sadness and neglect, she had eventually been removed from her birth mother before embarking upon the long and painful road to adoption. With the continuing love, patience and support of her adoptive parents, the healing process has evidently begun in earnest and (no longer fearful of going hungry) this little girl was happy to part with the entire chocolate bar.  

Parenting can be hard – even when your relationship with your little one began with a totally clean slate. One can only imagine how much harder it must be, when a veritable cocktail of emotional and physical trauma, deep-seated fear, and an almost blanket distrust of adults stands in the way of that crucial relationship building process. Only by having read the post in full, was I able to begin to comprehend its significance.

By all means then, use the cover as a guide – but don’t forget to read the ‘book’ in its entirety before you attempt to form a judgement of any kind.

And even then, it’s probably wise to tread carefully.      

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Merry Betwixtmas!

Soon after it was released, in 2001, I remember going to see ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’ with my mum.

Ever since the trailer had first graced our screens, she’d been wanting to go and see it. She’d also mentioned (several times over!) that Renée Zellweger had been required to put on weight in order to assume the title role – talk about going ‘above and beyond’!

As we watched the film together, laughing uncontrollably at the irreverence, chaos and hilarity of it all, I couldn’t help noticing that there were one or two (distinctly unfavourable) similarities between us. Okay, I was still a tiny bit younger than Bridget (with parents who were infinitely nicer and more tactful than hers) but I was single, prone to brief bouts of loneliness, and ‘upsizing’ at an alarming rate – as the large bag of pick ‘n mix (resting upon my ample thighs) would willingly testify!

Some twenty years later, and my life (rather like my appearance) is almost unrecognisable. Happily married with two gorgeous (but unrelentingly energetic) boys, I delight in the simple pleasure of being able to view my feet once more(!) having shrugged off the sedentary lifestyle of my 20s and 30s in favour of two relatively inexpensive commodities – namely, exercise and fresh air.

Having recently re-watched ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’, I found myself pondering Bridget’s ‘predicament’ from a slightly different perspective. Feelings of sympathy and (dare I say) pity, were less dominant this time around with the many benefits of being a SINK (single income, no kids) coming somewhat tantalisingly to the fore – sitting firmly, as we are, in the period fondly known as Betwixtmas…

For one thing, there’s the opportunity for some wonderfully spontaneous ‘self-gifting’ – not least because your disposable income is not being siphoned off by tweens who’ve apparently ingested an entire party pack of Miracle-Gro for Christmas!

Then there are the lie-ins, pyjama days and leisurely baths that can happen on a whim – and that (all too quickly) assume the scarcity of gold-dust once the ‘ankle-biters’ have arrived upon the scene.

Those profiteroles (enjoyed mid-morning, straight from the serving dish whilst sprawling out on the sofa) hardly fall within the ‘Change4Life’ guidelines either – inconveniently publicised by schools and doctors, with the clear expectation that these principles will be dutifully modelled by parents too.

And don’t get me started on that impromptu lunch date at the trendy new bistro in town – only made feasible because the logistical wizardry associated with arranging childcare (several days in advance) is simply not a consideration here!

They say that ‘the grass is always greener’ – and I do believe that there is a great deal of truth in this – but for the record (and just in case my husband or children ever read this!) I am extremely contented with ‘my lot’ and don’t miss my ‘Bridget’ days one bit. However, I would still urge my SINK (and DINKY) friends (you know who you are!) to enjoy Betwixtmas to the full.

This is your time. Use it wisely!

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Let the festivities begin

Now that my children have finally broken up for Christmas, we are all daring to hope that we’ll be permitted to spend some quality time with our extended family – lateral flow tests notwithstanding, of course. At least, that is, until Boris calls a somewhat premature halt to any seasonal revelry.

As 2021 gradually draws to a close, it is astonishing to think that so much uncertainty still pervades everyday life and the distinct possibility of having to surrender many of our basic liberties once again (almost as soon as the last mince pie has been devoured) is more than a little demoralising! However, now is not the time for negative thoughts (after all, that’s what January is for!) instead, why not follow the advice of Stephen Covey? Namely that we should ‘Live, love, laugh (and) leave a legacy’, because these are the memories that will ultimately sustain our loved ones when we can no longer be together.

‘Last Call for Christmas’ by Gaynor Hall

’Twas the night before lockdown when all through the nation,
The people were cursing in abject frustration –
They’d barely discarded their party hats,
Nor managed the very last riddle to crack.

Gifts lay unopened at the foot of the tree,
Intended for Gran who’d been sleeping since 3!
And now the PM (centre stage on the telly)
Was ‘calling time’ on their festive Beef Wellie!

With no time to work off the Christmas excess,
Life would be cancelled again – more or less,
With guidelines as ‘rich’ as the festive fruit pud,
He began to outline all the ‘coulds’ and the ‘shoulds’.

Despite having chosen his rules to ignore –
Indulging in gatherings behind (public) closed doors –
It was clear that ‘Joe Bloggs’ was expected to comply
With another round of restrictions – no chance to defy.

But instead of being angry, with those cloaked in power,
(Lecturing, once more, from their ivory towers)
Those precious few hours of unrivalled pleasure,
Filled with such magical moments to treasure,

Are a fitting reminder of the laughter and love,
Witnessed, I’m sure, by our loved ones above.

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Mightier than the sword

First expressed in 1839, Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s assertion that, “The pen is mightier than the sword” is still as pertinent as ever. The extent to which words can encourage or dissuade, wound or comfort should not be underestimated – after all, they can remain in the memory almost indefinitely, and certainly long after a flesh wound might reasonably have been expected to heal.

The humble letter dates back to around 500 BC when the first example is thought to have been sent by Queen Atossa of Persia. However, this form of communication grew in popularity as more people gradually became literate. Indeed, some letters have literally been responsible for changing the course of history.

Henry VIII, for example, famously wrote a love letter to Anne Boleyn whilst he was still married to his first wife, Catherine of Arragon. And it was his infatuation with Anne that ultimately changed the religious structure of Britain forever, causing him to break away from the Roman Catholic Church in 1533 in order that he could remarry.

Abraham Lincoln’s trademark beard is also alleged to have been influenced by a letter; that of an 11-year-old girl who purportedly wrote that he ‘would look a great deal better’ if he were to ‘let (his) whiskers grow’. This was apparently on account of Lincoln’s face being ‘so thin’ and the fact that ‘all the ladies like whiskers’ and might, therefore, ‘tease their husbands to vote for (him)’! 

Of course, Charles Darwin, Winston Churchill and Martin Luther King are all further (incredibly formidable) examples of highly influential figures for whom the written word has proven a powerful tool, bringing about pivotal moments in history.

As a child, being made to write long thank you letters in the 3 or 4 days after Christmas was an arduous task. I was more than happy to acknowledge (with gratitude) the kindness of distant relatives but trying to sum up the main events of the past year (whilst also remembering to ask after a son or daughter whom I’d never actually met) seemed extraordinarily taxing. Added to which, my neat handwriting (and reasonably reliable spelling) seemed to earn me a substantial share in this particular duty and memories of countless sheets of Basildon Bond writing paper lying discarded upon my bedroom floor haunt me even now – a far cry from the brief thank you texts of current times and that unsung hero, the backspace key!

The advent of electronic mail brought with it a whole range of advantages. It was now possible to communicate with, and respond to, others much more quickly, the costs involved were relatively low and (in addition to being able to share attachments in a wide range of formats) the significant reduction in the amount of paper used (Basildon Bond included!) meant that it was much better for the planet too.

However, one distinct disadvantage of this ‘new’ form of communication was that many of the formalities previously adhered to were casually discarded too – eloquence of language, observation of social etiquette and the careful consideration of syntax being summarily replaced by a familiarity of tone rather more indicative of a conversation. And with many of the time-consuming rituals of traditional letter writing now alleviated (not to mention the inviting nature of that perilously cavalier ‘send’ button) businesses and individuals alike have fallen victim to torrents of abuse the likes of which would arguably have failed to make it into an envelope, let alone the postal system ‘back in the day’. In essence, we have moved towards ‘communication without a filter’.

Whilst the humble ‘pen’ might have been superseded by the trappings of technological advancement, we all still have a moral duty to consider (very carefully) the impact that our words can have upon others. After all, “A broken bone can heal, but the wound a word opens can fester forever” (Jessamyn West).

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A matter of perspective

Developing the ability to shift between different perspectives is an incredibly valuable skill and when this approach is embraced by a leadership team, it can have a profound effect upon both the productivity and wellbeing of an organisation and its employees.

It’s fascinating that the same word is used to describe the method by which an artist is able to successfully represent a 3D object on a 2D surface. By carefully considering the proportions and positioning of their subject, a skilled craftsman can alert his or her audience to the relationship between the component parts of that picture or scene.

If only it worked for stick men too – alas, the (frankly) rather pitiful extent of my own artistic capabilities…

Parents often lament the fact that their pre-schooler (or teenager, for that matter!) simply cannot see a situation from any viewpoint other than their own. But is it really any wonder, when many adults seem to be permanently engaged in the very same struggle? At least the truculent teenager is able to cite raging hormones as a mitigating factor!

Having been a teacher for a good deal longer than I have been a parent, I have always approached the boys’ Parents’ Evenings with generous helpings of diplomacy – and a determination to consider ‘both sides of the story’ before reaching a final judgement on any potentially contentious issues. After all, angry exchanges are not pleasant for either party and tend to remain etched upon the teacher’s memory long after that particular pupil has moved on.

From the mother who turned up inebriated, to the father who berated me for not awarding his son the Maths Prize (despite being a teacher of Music and English) I’ve probably ‘seen it all’. However, a former colleague once shared a story that rendered (even) me speechless, and it sums up the matter of ‘perspective’ (or a lack thereof) rather well.

As Head of Sport at an independent school, it was the unenviable task of my colleague to select a team for the weekly fixtures. Having agreed a policy of ‘Sport for All’ within her department, she was mindful of the need to give every child a chance to represent the school at some point during the term – even if this meant that the ‘more able’ had to sit the odd game out too.

Well, this was met with utter condemnation one Wednesday morning – an irate parent ‘lying in wait’ for my colleague as she drew up in the car park shortly before 7.30am. Before she had even had time to get out of her vehicle, she found this particular parent towering over her – demanding an explanation.

Drawing herself up to her full height (sadly only about 5ft 4 at best!) my colleague calmly attempted to re-iterate the school’s policy, whilst also pointing out that the child in question had in fact already played more games than any other pupil that term.

This, however, did little to appease the woman (who insisted that her child should feature in the match) and she continued her tirade for the duration of the 850m walk from the lower car park to the main entrance.

Upon arrival (and feeling suitably browbeaten) my colleague reached into her bag and produced the (offending) team sheet with a flourish. As something akin to a last resort, she thrust the piece of paper in front of the angry parent and asked her which child should be removed from the team, in order that her own daughter might play instead?

Her thinking, of course, was that this would bring the parent to her senses, realising at once just how arbitrary she was being.

The fact that this woman didn’t even flinch before making her ‘selection’ spoke volumes.     

C.S. Lewis once stated that “What you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing” before adding that, “It also depends on what sort of person you are”.

Once again, Mr Lewis seems to have ‘hit the nail (very firmly) on the head’!

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Monsters need not apply

I’m willing to bet that most of us would admit to having been overwhelmed by the (seemingly relentless) demands of our line managers at one time or another. There may well have been periods where that (much eulogised about) work / life balance has been virtually impossible to achieve, with feelings of anxiety (laced with resentment!) having risen to near-seismic proportions.

All things are relative, of course, and so (understandably) opinion would seem to be divided as to which careers generate the most stress, present the biggest challenges or carry the greatest responsibility.

Fulfilling the role of a parent though, must arguably be one of the toughest ‘occupations’ that there is – because the stakes are so incredibly high. Granted, there is no lengthy application or interview process to undergo – and there are very few other roles where ‘no previous experience needed’ might reasonably feature in the advertisement – and yet most of us would probably question just how well we might fare in a routine performance management review! After all, children frequently test their parents’ patience to the limit – typically at a time where they have found that their logistical, problem-solving and diplomacy skills are already ruthlessly under assault – and sometimes, when our head eventually hits the pillow, we simply have to be satisfied with a judgement of ‘good enough’.

The reality, of course, is that very few job descriptions actually give a potential employee a reliable insight into what will be expected of them (once they take up that post) and, by the same token, a number of employers would probably argue that the person who seemed to be such a strong applicant on paper, has not always turned out to be the wisest of appointments.

Returning to the (unadvertised) post of ‘Parent’ though, it is important to realise that ‘one size’ most definitely does not ‘fit all’. Just as each child is very much an individual, parenting styles will inevitably vary too and as long as the best interests of our children are at the heart of our decision making, then I see no reason to be too hard on ourselves. After all, most children simply crave an environment in which they can feel safe, loved, and valued – this being, of course, the very least that they deserve.

Regrettably though, this is not always the case – the abhorrent actions of a reprehensible minority often defying belief.

The devastating story of Arthur Labinjo-Hughes (so widely reported in the media this week) is a powerful (and sickening) example.

Failed by the very people who were meant to protect him, that poor little boy endured unimaginable suffering and his premature, cruel, and senseless death will be on the conscience of a great many people – for a very long time to come.

And rightly so. Because we (as a society) let Arthur down. Badly.

May you finally rest in peace, little man.

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All that glitters is not gold

Let’s face it. We’ve all done it. At least once.

It’s so easy to get into a mindset where we become increasingly dissatisfied with ‘our lot’ reaching unwittingly for those rose-tinted glasses through which so much of what we see on social media must surely have been captured.

However, it’s human nature to want to better oneself and there is nothing quite like the feeling of seeing the fruits of one’s labours boldly looking back at us in the shape of a shiny new purchase!

The first car I ever bought will always occupy a very special place in my heart. Not only was it a nippy little thing in a pretty purple colour – mercifully, with age, comes better judgement! – but it was what it represented that made it so precious to me. It was a symbol of my new-found independence and heralded my first foray into the world of paid employment. I’ve bought no less than seven cars since then, and although they have outperformed my humble little Clio on pretty much every single level (I mean, it had handles to ‘wind’ down the windows, for goodness sake!) not one has won my affection in the same way.

And people can be much the same. Some can make you feel instantly better for seeing them – exuding warmth, humour, and compassion – whilst others don all of the outward vestiges of confidence and success but fail to touch us in quite the same way.

I recently learned that a friend of mine had been (as they say) rather unceremoniously ‘traded in for a younger model’ and she was quick to show me a photo of the new ‘acquisition’. And (apart from some rather prominent body-coloured bumpers!) it was difficult to see the attraction. All of a sudden, my thoughts returned to the car that had won my affection all those years ago. It had faithfully taken me safely all over the United Kingdom (in high winds, snow, and fog) and, had it not eventually gasped its last on my mum’s front drive, I’d like to think that it would still have been with me today. For no other car (albeit blessed with a host of advanced electrical features) has ever been quite so dependable – or indeed so much fun to drive.

‘All that glitters is not gold’ by Gaynor Hall

She always looks so glamorous, bedecked from head to toe
In jewellery rich and sparkling and tones that make her glow.
Her hair is thick and glossy, a profusion of gentle curls
Which frame her dainty cheekbones whilst her generous lashes unfurl.

His smile exudes an arrogance – the cat that got the cream –
As upon his arm she simpers, doing wonders for his self-esteem.
They dart from table to table, simply desperate to advertise
To every other person there that he’s won the topmost ‘prize’.

They cut a striking figure as they glide across the floor,
Moving in perfect synergy as they chassé towards the door.
They step into a waiting limo, waving such fond goodbyes,
But as soon as the car is out of sight, she drops her clever disguise.

The demands start to tumble incessantly out, each one just a bit more unreasonable,
He weakly offers his assurances, though he’s not sure they’re actually feasible.
He watches as she snaps and snarls – transforming those dainty features
Into something far less alluring – akin to a vicious creature.

His thoughts drift back to times gone by, when the person at his side
Cared about his feelings – made him laugh until he cried.
She never asked for expensive gifts, preferring instead to play
Endless board games with him and the kids, bringing cheer to a rainy day.

He’d been foolish (he could see that now) simply wanting to spread his wings,
Getting caught up in his own vanity and seeking ‘better’ things.
Why hadn’t he seen the value in the life they’d built together?
A life where honesty and love so many storms had weathered.

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The rise of the emoji

Words have always been a source of fascination for me and I often attribute my passion for language to the many hours that my dear old mum spent reading to us as children. Quite apart from the traditional bedtime story slot at home, she would often have a book stowed away in the glove compartment of the family car, to be brought out on long journeys and read by torchlight as my dad drove us to our destination.

Seeing a similar level of enthusiasm for books beginning to develop within my own boys gives me indescribable pleasure and it is for this reason that I continue to make time for sharing a bedtime story with my youngest. This has always been our opportunity for spending quality time together (not to mention my best chance of managing a good old snuggle!) the only difference being that the rather simplistic picture books of early childhood have given way to gripping adventure novels whose chapters provide the perfect conditions for allowing the imagination to run wild.

And boy, does it run wild!

One thing that took a little time for him to grasp, however, was that words can be used figuratively. Indeed, it would often be several days before I’d realise that he had taken a particular phrase absolutely literally and then spent hours desperately trying to decipher its meaning. And, if I’m honest, I can see just how such confusion arises.

The English language is by no means straightforward – with seemingly many more exceptions than rules. Add into the mix our almost addictive penchant for using a range of metaphors (mixed or otherwise) and non-native speakers must frequently risk finding themselves in a linguistic minefield. I can see why the (not so humble) emoji holds such appeal! Furthermore, just as you think that you have found a saying that aptly supports the case that you are trying to put forward, some ‘smart Alec’ (rather infuriatingly) manages to come up with a gloriously contradictory one!

I seem to have spent the last few days ‘checking in’ with various friends, being all too aware of just how easily the busy daily routine can prevent us from nurturing our relationships with others. I have genuinely struggled to find the time to commit my thoughts to (virtual) paper of late either and this got me thinking… Would the absence of something to read (amongst my loyal followers at least) ‘make the heart grow fonder’ or would it simply be a case of ‘out of sight, out of mind’?

I concluded (rather grudgingly) that it is probably a case of the latter. After all, ‘Time (or at least the world of social media) waits for no (wo)man’ and anyway, (as Robert Half rightly observed) an ego trip is ‘a journey to nowhere’.

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Delving into life’s selection box

Way back in 1994, Forrest Gump (aka Tom Hanks) famously stated that his mum had always said that “life was like a box of chocolates” before going on to explain that this was because “you never know what you’re gonna get”.

Fortunately (for the risk averse amongst us) there is that helpful illustrated guide to lead us ever so gently through that all-important selection process, ensuring that we don’t unsuspectingly succumb to a flavour so utterly repugnant, that it all but ruins a Saturday evening’s viewing – perish the thought…

And for those who prefer to dabble in a spot of (confectionary fuelled) Russian roulette, then just be sure to have the number of an out of hours dentist saved into your contacts – just in case you end up falling victim to a rogue toffee or two!

With the festive season rapidly approaching, the subject of ‘Christmas Nibbles’ inevitably came up, with opinion briefly divided as to whether Cadbury’s ‘Heroes’ or Nestlé’s ‘Quality Street’ should take centre stage this year. And (even putting aside the many valid reasons for boycotting Nestlé’s products) it soon became clear that no-one can resist a hero – chocolate or otherwise – and that the chances of any particular variety being left to languish in the bottom of the tub (in our house at least) are extremely slim.

However, it would seem that even ‘heroes’ are capable of falling victim to a slump in popularity, with one or two firm favourites (The Twirl and the Dairy Milk) habitually outranking the humble Éclair – the item purportedly most likely to be consumed as a last resort. Similarly, across a range of opinion polls, the nation has repeatedly spurned the Coconut Éclair in favour of ‘The Purple One’ and the mini-Mars went on to suffer the ultimate ignominy of being deemed the least cause for celebration – and this in spite of being credited with the unique ability to ‘help you work, rest and play’ in the late 1950s!

Talk about falling from grace…

The point is, that (try as we might) we simply can’t avoid the selection (or even rejection) process. Either at work, or in our personal relationships, it is likely that we will have fallen victim to being unceremoniously ‘left on the shelf’ at one stage or another. However, if it has acted as a catalyst for self-evaluation or growth, then perhaps it was not such a bad thing.

So, if you’ve felt the passage of time rather keenly of late (and found yourself somewhat inclined to wallow in self-pity) thank your lucky stars that you don’t have to be a hero, you can live on a street of your choosing and that (with any luck) there’s still cause for celebration.

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When the mornings aren’t quite dark enough

It is difficult to recall a time when our country has faced a more diverse set of challenges. A period of post-Brexit economic uncertainty was quickly eclipsed by the global pandemic and, in addition to the heavily publicised failings of the Metropolitan Police, the last few weeks have seen widespread disruption caused (in part) by a shortage of HGV drivers, but also by the subsequent panic-buying of fuel.

Those members of our family who continue to live in the Southeast of England, frequently regale us with stories that would strongly suggest that many local councils are close to breaking point too. One such council has had to suspend its garden waste collections – despite its residents having already been hit with paying an additional subscription for this particular service – and I’m told that its household waste and recycling collections are currently somewhat sporadic too. I gather that hospital appointments around the region are also something akin to gold dust at present, with NHS trusts working flat out to cover staff shortages whilst also trying to meet the ever-increasing demands posed by the ongoing pandemic. It would certainly seem that (in this respect at least) the North-South divide is currently tipping ever so slightly in our favour because, since relocating to Derbyshire in 2014, we have been fortunate enough to see little or no reduction in either the quality or availability of our local service provision. Any medical concerns have been promptly dealt with (to the point where my husband saw his GP one morning and, rather impressively, attended the local hospital for a range of tests the very next day) and our various bin collections have continued without disruption – and, better still, with no hint of a surcharge either.

Much to the relief of us all, I might add. Especially this week.

For half term week (regardless of location) is challenge enough for any family. With countless sibling disagreements to mediate, a range of interesting activities to mastermind, unpredictable weather to surmount, and one’s own last few shreds of sanity to retain, there is one household collection that positively NEEDS to take place. And boy, did our neighbour take full advantage this week…

As I reluctantly stepped from the shower cubicle this morning, I was met with the (all too) familiar sound of clinking glass and falling dustbin lids.

‘Grown-up’ cordial evidently forming part of this week’s coping strategy for other households too!

But this raucous ‘dawn symphony’ lasted well beyond the expected 4 movements, eventually culminating in an elaborate cadenza of aluminium cans too. And as I chuckled to myself (noting that perhaps a wine box or two might have been the wiser option here) I caught a brief glimpse of the ‘conductor’ surreptitiously wheeling their recycling bin towards the pavement. The irony being, of course, that in less than 48 hours (when the UK reverts to GMT) their identity would likely have been well and truly protected.

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