The swifts are here.
I was so thrilled to see them this morning when I was pegging out the washing that I yelled into the house for Lucy, who failed to be in the least excited about it, but I think it is wonderful. We have survived another winter, and their magical, piping call is a reassurance that summer is almost upon us.
Almost as good, today it isn’t raining. It is warm and benevolent and cheery. The Weather Gods were feeling benign and all of the washing dried. The air is heavy with the scent of blossom, and the world has suddenly become a gorgeous palette of brilliant greens.
Also I have made a successful new recipe today, and it is absolutely splendid. I am trying not to eat chocolate because of the previously discussed issue of middle-aged stoutness, and I read this one in a library book. You buy a box of ethical dates in Booths, helpfully supporting the Israeli date farmers into the bargain, and cut them in half and take the stone out. Then you sprinkle a bit of sage into the sticky bit and wrap each half in a sliver of prosciutto. Chuck them into the oven for about seven minutes, and then try not to eat them all at once. They are not exactly slimming, actually they taste as though they are packed with sugar, but they are brilliantly nice, and if only I were naturally thin I would have eaten the whole lot straight away.
I think perhaps they may be especially nice when you are subsisting on a diet of things that are good for you.
Apart from that it has been a very happy sort of day. Rosie jumped into the pond on our walk this morning, and Lucy remembered her telephone, which told her encouragingly how virtuous she had been to walk so many Steps. I did not ask how many steps she had walked but it must have been lots to win such glowing cyber-accolades. My telephone is entirely indifferent to my fell-walking activities, which is how I prefer it, really telephones should mind their own business.
After we had returned home and restored our flagging vitality with bowls of porridge, of which, incidentally, we purchased another bag in Booths and the lady on the till told us disapprovingly that it was a winter breakfast not suitable for May, Lucy went upstairs to revise for her Detective exam and promptly fell asleep.
I have to say that I am becoming more and more sympathetic to The Three Bears. You can’t just make another bowl of porridge in an emergency, it has to soak overnight. If some tiresome little yellow-haired oik nipped into our house and polished mine off whilst we were fell walking I would be absolutely livid. I think they should have eaten Goldilocks instead, and garnished her with the yoghurt and raspberries and side-order of banana that they were saving for their porridge. That would have shown her.
I watered the conservatory, which takes ages but is always satisfying, especially since the cats have hardly dug up any of my little tomato plants at all, and pondered again the difficulties posed by the giant geranium, which has grown several feet since the weather began to warm up, and which is now making it difficult to access the kitchen. Indeed, I have just looked at the last picture of it on these very pages, and it seems to have been a mere sapling when I took it.
I did not do anything about it, it is beginning to be somewhat intimidating, and I decided it was probably beyond my capacity to resolve. Instead I swept and mopped everywhere, because of muddy fell boots, and faffed about stickily with the dates. In between I cooked a chicken for Lucy to take home and share with the cats. She does not have an oven in her house at the moment, and hence roasted dinners are a tiresome impossibility.
By the time I had done all of that it was time to get ready for work. I am desperately trying to get on with my Dissertation but somehow there just doesn’t seem to have been much time lately, between children and suit-ordering and Bank Holidays and cats.
Tomorrow. I will do it tomorrow.
I really will do it tomorrow.
