This time change has not been a particularly kind one. Coming earlier in March, when the winter's still making a concerted effort to kill everyone, it's even less welcome than usual, even less easy to move from darkity-dark-dark-underground-dwelling-cave-creature time to happy-happy-sun-time.

Sunday morning I woke up an hour late for climbing, which is fun for no one, because even when I'm on-time, the only word I can manage for the first two hours of the day is "coffee". There was panic, and poking, and matching socks. Which are fun for no one. (Disclaimer: I can fill a room with tasty, nourishing soups, bake banana bread that ends wars, scones that know the face of God, but at 32 years old, I cannot make a decent cup of coffee. Go fig.)

This morning was only marginally better, because I woke with the sinking suspicion that only one of the two clocks in the bedroom had been updated. So I wanted to sleep, but felt incredibly guilty about it. And then boom pow! work and work drama and boo and horrible dark Marchlight savings time mood.

Which calls for soup, and folk music, and reading about slithery alien things eating many boats on the South Pacific. I highly recommend this type of therapy. If, y'know, you can't go climbing again UNTIL WEDNESDAY, for pete's sake.

That's three whole days.

Then again, I'm going swimming tomorrow night, so all is not lost. I think strenuous physical activity is the only thing I can think of to use as a weapon against March. It's so cold, but all the snow is now ice or sock-soaking puddles. It's nice to have a purpose for trudging out into it all, a movement through instead of into, so that the warm fires are stoked by the soreness of your muscles at the end of the night.

Or there's soup. That's good too.