The problem with the Conservative Party, Evelyn Waugh once argued, is that we have never put the clock back by even a single second. That’s probably because, as a mass democratic organisation, we have to respect public opinion. And the public’s opinion on putting the clock back, as you will no doubt have noticed this weekend, is that it is, literally, a waste of time.

But while I have huge respect for majority opinion on most issues (our relations with Europe, the value of constitutional monarchy, the superiority of Emma of a Sunday night over Doc Martin), I have to confess that I am firmly in the minority camp on the great question of Greenwich Mean versus British Summer. When it comes to putting the clock back, I’m up there with Evelyn, G.K. Chesterton, the Amish, Ned Ludd and Billy Hayes in my zeal for turning back the hands of time. But in my case, unlike the others, it’s just for 60 minutes. Once every year.

I know all the arguments about the wasted hour of daylight in the morning and the prematurely crepuscular afternoons that make our roads and our moods simultaneously darker. But as I have grown older I have become less and less sympathetic to the case for change. Not because the balance of evidence has shifted. But because my day has.

A combination of children, advancing decrepitude and rising workload has mean that, in the past six years, I have risen several hours earlier than I used to in my innocent bachelor days and, in consequence, I now go to bed at the hour I used to start going out. I used to keep the sort of hours favoured by courtesans, nightclub bouncers, poker players and Satanists. Now I follow the broad routine kept by prisoners, prep school boys, priests and, once upon a time, postmen.

But what sounds like a Cromwellian erosion of liberty, and a banishment from the realm of pleasure, has in fact become a liberation. And like most converts, I have become tiresomely evangelical about my new way of life. The Earth is more beautiful, birdsong is sweeter and life more hopeful in the dawn hours.

Putting the clocks back is an invitation to all of us to reset our lives. All we need to do to glory in as much daylight as ever is get out of bed earlier. Of course, the forces of darkness will object and try to claim you for their own. But just imagine how much better your life would be if you were invulnerable to their approaches — asleep even before Question Time came on.

England expects

I’m sure Evelyn Waugh would have been delighted by the marvellously reactionary audacity of the Pope’s bid this week to win over even more Anglican souls for Rome. More than four hundred years on, the Counter- Reformation is clearly not over. I have to confess (and that of course is an option he wants to make increasingly available to me) that I rather admire the chutzpah of Pope Benedict’s dawn raid on the faithful.

And I certainly would not wish to place any obstacle in the way of those catholic Anglicans who would be happier in Roman orders. But why should the path to Rome be a one-way street? Why shouldn’t the Church of England issue an enthusiastic invitation to those Catholics less than perfectly happy with their own denomination to join a progressive, inclusive and wonderfully tolerant communion? How many Roman Catholics believe that women, as in the early church, should play an equal role in worship? How many Roman Catholics believe heart and soul in the sanctity of life but consider it absurd to tell African women at risk of Aids that condoms are sinful? How many Roman Catholics believe in commitment, fidelity and monogamy but find it sad, even a little shaming, that their Church is so hostile to gay people who want to openly celebrate their commitment to each other?

I’m rather bored with everyone assuming that the Anglican Communion must always be on the retreat, in decline, progressively losing more and more of its members to other, more assertive, denominations. Why shouldn’t a Church that prizes gentleness, civility, consideration, openness, moderation in manner but wise certainty about the ultimate things, prosper and grow? This is an hour, in so many ways, when the Anglican genius for compromise without any dilution of decency or virtue has never been more needed.

The wrong Mr Right

I have, as I mentioned above, loved Emma. It is, in every sense, what the BBC is for. And from Romola Garai to Michael Gambon and Tamsin Greig, the cast have been wonderful. But just one quibble. Jonny Lee Miller is too pretty. The whole point of Mr Knightley is that he’s much older, careworn even, and it’s his quiet yet firm, Anglican, virtues that eventually recommend him. Not how well he fills his britches. The next time the BBC revives the drama they should recognise that Austen had a keener sense of what really set female pulses racing than most modern casting directors. She knew that women with taste prefer vintage to box-fresh. So instead of choosing a leading man by the criteria Simon Cowell would choose a boy band singer they should see if General Sir Mike Jackson is free instead.

Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath

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