Everybody has, but I'm taking it particularly badly. Once again, it snuck up on me.

There is never enough warning – I sincerely believe there should be government-funded advertising campaigns preparing us for the impending loss, like with the smoking ban or the date for sending in your tax return.

I want to see posters at bus stops: "The hour is going! Enjoy it while it lasts!

"Don't plan any extra-long activities…in fact don't even shower… time is of the essence!"

As it is, nobody in the world is ever entirely sure except my mother, who likes to chant "spring forward, fall back" at you as you stagger, blinking, into the cruel, 23-hour day wondering why every clock in the house is set to a different time and your stomach believes it already to be lunchtime.

Think of all the things I might have done with that hour, had it not been so ruthlessly snatched from my schedule.

I could have exfoliated! I could have learnt to knit.

I might have unwittingly discovered a cure for the common cold, or the precise golden ratio for the ultimate cheese toastie (not too dry, not too soggy, no unpleasant cheddar burns).

I might have used that hour for the greater good of mankind.

Of course it's entirely probable I would have slept through the whole thing, but I'll be forever tortured by the uncertainty.

Incidentally, this week I have also lost two-thirds of this column to advertising space.

What I might have achieved with that, we'll never know either.

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