The last 60 minutes did not take place. The final hour of summer has been erased, eradicated and turned back to bible-black winter. Welcome Greenwich Mean Time.
Nearly 60 years ago, Dylan Thomas described this time of night in Under Milk Wood:
“Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman, the web foot cocklewomen and the tidy wives. Young girls lie bedded soft or glide in their dreams, with rings and trousseaux, bridesmaided by glow-worms down the aisles of the organplaying wood. The boys are dreaming wicked or of the bucking ranches of the night and the jollyrodgered sea. And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wetnosed yards; and the cats nap in the slant corners or lope sly, streaking and needling, on the one cloud of the roofs.”
If the last 60 minutes did not happen, then the last 60 years could also be seen as irrelevant. The babies are crying along with the pensioners and the young girls are now the drunkards and the boys are roaming wicked on the bucking streets of the night. In another piece, Dylan Thomas wrote:
“Do not go gentle into that goodnight,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Goodbye British Summer Time or, as some now propose, goodbye Greenwich Mean Time.