At this time of year, and with my work hours, the days feel oddly symmetrical. People with more sensible days would only experience this after British Summertime, and then the effect is diminished.
Especially on Fridays, when I leave work early, morning and evening are both painted in the same colours: half-light, greyed in the eye by their dimness. Fuzzily, imperceptibly, the ends of the day push apart, jostling around the locations of my journey: sunrise in Kennington; sunrise in Radley. Eventually the slow creep of the analemma leads to its hectic through the equinoctes, glorious mornings and evenings with promise. But for now at least they retain their sombreness—grey-green, grey-blue, streetlight orange—and the symmetry is ironic and tragic, like the concept of second childhood.