Spreng

This morning

Well it's not Spring is it?  Flinging back the curtains first thing this morning, in a burst of joie de vivre, I had expected to see the sun.  Why?  Because I'm desperate for bright light!  I've been half asleep since November.  My ridiculous hope was rubbished: naturally.  F***ing snow!  Ankle deep, dismal, icy slurry! My vivre shrivelled!   I sat huddled in my dressing gown, with my early morning cup of tea and decided to ring the hair-dressers.  Even my highlights looked arthritic.

The Wild One

Last week, buoyed up by two sunny days, the crocuses in bloom in front of the Majestic Hotel and on the Stray, I had dared to believe Spring was here.  So much so that Johnny and I were getting quite excited at the prospect of our window boxes and hanging baskets.  Johnny has two window boxes: a wild one and a becoming wild one.


I had even felt sufficiently alert to buy some primroses and pansies and had spent a happy three hours on my sunny, if nithering patio, planting them out.  'I'm watching my wild box,' said Johnny, 'I'm waiting for the new entrant.  Last year it was a nettle - and it fucking stung me - I told it off! After all, I am letting it live in my window box!'

In my opinion, any new entrant would be well advised to remain unsprung until Yorkshire warming occurs.