15 April

Well yesterday, was as promised, gloriously and unseasonably hot. And where was I? In bed for most of the day. I managed to get through the entire autumn and winter without so much as a sniffle, only to be felled by something or other on a perfect day in spring. I felt sick, weary and sorry for myself, but these things rarely last and here I am, tottering about again. And at least it’s another lovely day. There’s a blue and white tablecloth on the garden table, under bubblegum pink cherry blossom, all surrounded by frothy creamy-white hawthorn and fat purple tulips. No great swathes of colour, yet, just bright and clashing spots to draw the eye, resplendent against the greenery. For it’s not summer; that heavy languid torpor has not descended yet. The birds sound urgent, chivvying, the sap’s still rising. We’re slowly unfurling, though, both the buds and our winter-weary bones, shyly presenting ourselves to the sun. The bare limbs of the trees are covering up; ours are peeping out. Or maybe I’m wrong and it is summer after all – a big fat bumblebee has just drowsily alighted on my chair as I write this. The children think it’s summer, too, and await in thrilled anticipation for the ice-cream van which appeared, miraculously, once and only once, in our village last year. “I do believe in ice-cream vans, I do I do I do believe in ice-cream vans:” you can almost hear their unspoken thoughts. Maybe the ice-cream seller will think it’s summer too, and appear as if by magic. Who knows.