The clocks go back this weekend, which means that by 4pm on Sunday the nation will be eating its roast dinner in what can only be described as a cave with a dimmer switch. Nobody is more affected than the roast potato. We found one in the top third of a fan oven in Swindon, where it has been quietly crisping for what it calls “one o’clock, and then one o’clock again”.

Its owner, home cook Helen Prosser, 54, admits the extra hour has not helped. “I put the beef in at what I thought was the right time, then my phone changed itself, then the oven clock didn’t, and now I have no idea who to trust,” she said. “The only clock I believe is the one in my stomach, and that one’s been shouting since Thursday.”

The Interview

Thanks for speaking to us. You look wonderful, very golden.

Crispy, love. Golden is what people say when they’re being polite. I’ve done the golden bit. I did it hours ago. I’m now in what I’d call a long, thoughtful, structurally sound phase.

How has the extra hour affected you?

I was told I’d get a bonus hour. A bonus! I assumed it was a lie-in. Turns out it’s just another hour of being turned over with a spoon while Helen asks the oven how it’s feeling.

And how do you feel about the darkness?

Honestly, it’s the only bit I like. Nobody can see how long I’ve been in here. It’s very forgiving.

At this point the Yorkshire pudding, who had been sitting suspiciously tall on the next shelf, interrupted.

Yorkshire pudding: Can I just say that I’ve been up since the batter went in, and I’ve risen to every occasion, and nobody’s asked me how I’m doing?

You’re a pudding, Yorkshire. You’re literally just air and confidence.

Yorkshire pudding: Well, I’m very tired of both!

From the back of the tray, a small voice cleared its throat. The parsnips, who had been glazed in honey and then ignored, said they just wanted it noted that they were also in the oven, and that they had been there the entire time.

Noted. Sorry, parsnips.

It’s fine. We’re used to it. We’re basically the sixth member of a five-piece band.

We approached the gravy for comment, but it declined. Through a spokesjug, it said it was “still deciding what time it is” and would be “thick or thin depending on how the next few hours go”.

“The clocks going back is a gift to the carvery trade. People turn up at half two like it’s teatime, then sit there in the dark with a Yorkshire pudding the size of a hat, looking emotional.” Gareth Pugh, carvery manager, Wiltshire

Pugh says his team has already prepared for the change. “We’ve turned all the lights on at 3pm and told everyone it’s cosy. It works about 60 per cent of the time. The other 40 per cent just order a pudding and stare out of the window.”

Back in the oven, the potato was starting to feel the strain. It has now been through the par-boil, the shake (“the part where you get roughed up in a colander, which I’ll be taking to my grave”), the hot fat, and two separate rounds of Helen opening the door, saying “nearly”, and closing it again.

What would you say to the people eating you tonight?

Look, I’m not a difficult potato. I know I’m a side. I know the beef gets the credit and the cauliflower cheese gets the fuss. But if one more person says “we’ll eat when it’s ready” and then wanders off to find the other sock, I won’t be responsible for what happens to my edges.

Is there anything that would make this easier?

Honestly? Just eat me at a normal time. Half one, two o’clock, whichever one it actually is. I don’t need a fanfare. I just want to be on a plate while I’m still crunchy, and in a room where somebody can see me.