The Lost Hour

Zipping up his jeans, he washed his hands in the cloakroom sink before returning to his chair in the lounge, a DVD on pause. He’d been re-watching the Star Wars films from Phantom Menace to Return of the Jedi, though he was currently only at A New Hope. He paused as he caught sight of the clock on the DVD player: It was three minutes past two.

It was three minutes past two, and he had gotten out of his chair at two minutes to one.

Panic gripped him as he stumbled from the lounge to the kitchen, quickly pouring a glass of cold water to gulp down as he stared at his face reflected in the stainless steel extractor hood. Had he blacked out? There was that medical condition on Scrubs, he recalled, where someone could black out when going to the toilet… he -had- been stressed at work.

Or perhaps it was aliens. There was that flash of light from outside, it could have been some form of extra-terrestrial mind-control, his memories of being teleported onto the mothership for testing blanked from his mind. With trembling hands he set his glass down to start checking over himself for puncture marks and other tell-tale signs.

It was then that he caught sight of the microwave’s clock. It read five past one, he thought… spinning around, he checked it properly, as well as the cooker’s clock… five minutes past one.

Realization dawned in his mind.

“Bloody British Summer Time!”

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