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Perhaps the only good thing that can be said about the clocks going back is the power hour. The power hour is the time you gained on Sunday, the 60 extra minutes that vaguely lightened the blow of knowing that you would be plunged into the dark ages by the time the EastEnders omnibus had started.
I always feel that the best way to use the power hour is to sleep, or to slip in an extra pint at the pub the night before - though obviously the more responsible of you might choose to do chores, and many parents won't get a power hour at all, owing to the inability of the under-fives to grasp the concept of daylight saving.
How embarrassing, then, that despite the power hour, I managed to be precisely 56 minutes late for work on Monday. I couldn't even blame it on a glitch with my iPhone's alarm, because I'm one of the six people in the country not to have one.
I called up a colleague to say I was...