I love this time of year.

It is absolutely my favourite time of year, except for when the trees are golden and tawny-orange in the autumn, or perhaps when it snows, or the heatwaves that we get occasionally when the world remembers it is supposed to have Global Warming and loafs about in the sun for a week or two. Apart from those times the springtime is my favourite.

The sun is shining and the blackbirds are in full-throated voice. The blossom is out on the trees, and the village is crammed with rosy-pink cherry trees and snowy-white apple trees and creamy magnolia. The horse chestnuts are festooned with glorious candles. The bluebells are coming out, and the woods are bursting with celandines and dandelions and cuckoo flowers. The trees are adorning themselves with their wonderful new emerald-green leaves, and the skylarks are singing their little heads off.

A cow had fallen asleep leaning on the stile yesterday morning. We did not want to disturb him, so I climbed over the gate and the dogs crawled underneath, albeit reluctantly. They do not like cows much.

He woke up with a start just as we tiptoed past and glared at us crossly.

I have been having early walks for a few days, because of trying to get on with the spring cleaning, so I have been trying to rush home from work and get into bed before one. This has worked surprisingly well, not least because it is so splendid to be out on the fells whilst they are still shining with the dew.

Also it means I can get a jolly lot of cleaning done when I get home.

This seems to be taking for ever. I estimated when I started that it would probably take me three days to clean the kitchen, but that was three days ago, and was clearly wildly optimistic. I have been polishing like the vintage car enthusiast who came second in the jamboree last year, but I have still got loads to go. It is all frustrating me so much that I can hardly force myself to go to bed when I get in from work, and have to be quite self controlled not to roll up my sleeves at midnight and start getting on with it.

Obviously this would not be any help at all, because it would just mean that I wouldn’t wake up until long after lunchtime, when it was too late to do anything useful.

Oliver kindly went to get the shopping for me this afternoon, which meant I could carry on scrubbing out the cupboards. I dispatched him to Marks and Spencer to get fish. I am eating a lot of fish at the moment, because I can do it with a clear conscience about not getting fat, especially with added lettuce. It is not as nice as chocolate buttons, but it is nice. Or maybe it is as nice, just very differently. You would not want to absent-mindedly dip your hand in a rustling bag at the cinema and discover it filled with oily mackerel, nor do I think I would be very pleased to find chocolate buttons on my sandwiches, at any rate, not since I was six.

Actually, that isn’t true. I think I might like chocolate button sandwiches very much, with yoghurt and peanut butter perhaps, and I shall remember the possibility for when the day arrives when I am a Size Twelve and do not need to get any thinner.

That day might still be some time off, although the other day I had the surprise of discovering that I have got ribs. Obviously I have always known that, but for some years now they have been wrapped as thoroughly as a china mug purchased on eBay from a determined virtue-signaller, and it was unexpected to find them still in situ.

I can’t count them yet.

That moment is also a long way off.

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