Breakfast in the garden in dressing gown. Ahaa and I thought it would never come. Dave’s remembering catching flies and practicing his pounce, Domino sits, Betty flits and Britney, ever present to possibility, walks the wall. This is the season of unwary youngsters. I’ve cleaned out the festering bird feeders, chopped the Buddleia down to its ears and snipped the branches into bits for next winters kindling. We mice love the garden at this time of year; it’s like being in the midst of a new child. Everyone’s out. Dogs barking, pigeons cooing, all sorts of things are rustling things from all points of your ears compass; a crumpled crisp packet spreading itself out again in new life from some automatic memory. So taken have I been with this new outside that I’m going to volunteer to help at Graves Park Farm. I only have to be around donkeys for a couple of minutes to be six again. But my favourite is the Highland Cows, their big eyes glimpsing out from a perpetual come hither fringe. Some people pat animals but I find the only way to really meet an animal is nose to nose, that’s how they do it, and it’s very sensible. If you want to learn about someone their nose is a sign of health, how they breathe shows how they are and the entry to their soul is inches away. Speed daters would do well to follow this simple method; it’s far more effective than sitting across a table blabbing on about one’s virtues. So a morning a week mucking out in the sun will suit me fine.
And they promised me if I did one day a week for three months I could shag Kate Humble. Ahaa Spring.
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