There can be few reading this who haven’t, at some point, arrived somewhere an hour late thanks to our clocks realigning themselves to British Summer Time (BST).

I speak from experience, remembering only too well the Sunday morning that I swept into church to find a steady stream of parishioners filing down the aisle. The service finished, the tea drunk, and the biscuits eaten.

Unlike the stalwarts who arrive precisely on time, having adjusted every clock in the house with military precision, the rest of us rely on guesswork, vague optimism, and whichever device updated itself overnight – assuming, of course, that it did.

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On the last Sunday of this month, our clocks will spring forward by an hour, and reignite the annual debate about this controversial practice.

Many people mistakenly believe the change was introduced for the benefit of the agricultural industry looking for more daylight hours for those working in the fields. This, however, is far from the truth. Not only were farmers never consulted, but they in fact actively lobbied against it, with many remaining unhappy to this day with its twice-yearly disruption.

So why do we continue with a practice first introduced by the British Parliament as a wartime measure in 1916?

Those in favour argue that it reduces energy consumption, providing longer, brighter evenings for work, tourism and outdoor activities. Others argue that it reduces road accidents and improves public safety.

Critics counter that it has a negative impact on our sleep patterns and circadian rhythms. Some studies suggest it can lead to a short-term increase in heart attacks in the days that follow, while also diminishing cognitive ability and weakening our immune function.

Yet, despite the European Parliament’s vote to abolish it in 2019, the seasonal shift remains. The political momentum behind its removal appears to have drifted into limbo, rather like the missing hour itself.

My only irritation is trying, and failing, to adjust the clock in my car, which is at least, I suppose, accurate for six months of the year

So, twice a year, we continue to adjust our clocks, and ourselves. I don’t need to tell those of you who work on the land, or with livestock, the additional challenges and disruptions it brings, unsettling both animals and humans alike.

Personally, I’m largely ambivalent about whether this happens or not. The amount of daylight makes little difference to those of us who spend most of our time in well-lit homes, shops and offices. My only irritation is trying, and failing, to adjust the clock in my car, which is at least, I suppose, accurate for six months of the year.

What does intrigue me, though, is where the missing hour goes.

When the clock hands leap from fifty-nine minutes past midnight to 2am, where do those sixty minutes vanish, and what becomes of all the things destined to happen within them? Who, or what, is swallowed by that hour that exists, and yet doesn’t?

Where have all the dreams gone? Do they linger alongside the babies who might have drawn their first breath in that stolen 60 minutes, and the strangers who may now never lock eyes on a dimly lit dance floor.

And what of those harsh truths that might have been spoken in the heat of a late-night argument – are they now forever silenced by the turn of the hour?

If timing, as they tell us, is everything, what happens when time itself shifts?

Yet, as we scramble around changing our watches, the earth continues its steady rotation. The sun rises and sets, taking no notice of government decisions or man-made mandates, so perhaps the debate is really a reminder of how important time is.

Time waits for none of us, but when used with care, and shared with the right people, it weaves itself quietly into the fabric of our lives, something no clock hands can ever sweep away.

For my part, I shall continue to treat every minute as precious, giving particular attention, perhaps, to those that fall at 11am on a Sunday morning, and making sure I am there to meet them.