Now, lest anyone labour under the illusion (delusion?) that my father's clock adjustment duties in October and March were a form of servility or slavery to the domestic sphere, allow me to disabuse you.
He adored pottering about the house, attending to the tasks he had chosen, or, had been willed to him, or had thrust upon him, - he did them all cheerfully - and was utterly reliable.
Moreover, once the dark evenings drew in, his notion of how Saturday evening should wend its way (once he had done the washing up, whereas I was frequently on chef duty), was to have the radio on (classical music or jazz for preference - and his knowledge of both was encyclopedic), his pipe lit (non-smokers were thus exiled from the kitchen), and either a bottle of good Italian red wine, or Scottish whisky, - and its attendant glass - to hand.
Only when MOTD came on would he claim access to one of the (at that time) two televisions, - I would be politely asked to vacate the study - in order to watch (and suffer with, and sometimes shout at) Manchester United.
The fact that my mother (and brother) were sometimes (nay, often) also watching MOTD in the living room together was entirely irrelevant; sometimes, suffering is a solitary occupation. It is especially solitary if your suffering serves to give rise to ribald mockery from your family in the adjacent room.
Anyway, MOTD over (or, rather, the section with Manchester United concluded), my father would then retire to the kitchen, good mood restored, (irrespective of the result), and proceed to return to his pipe and his whisky and his music where he was available to be chatted with, about life, the universe and everything - I used to sometimes grade term papers at the kitchen table, and we would chat.
