Paw Prints Ponders

The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la

Today I wrote not one word. At least, not one of the words I am supposed to be writing. I abandoned the Saturday Club to its own devices. I left Joséphine in the mairie waiting for an end to her story. I can’t think of one today, but I’m sure I will tomorrow. Let Horst plan his dinner parties and Karl discuss his Land Rovers – I shan’t interfere.

Today I played hooky. I pottered about the garden. I planted up some herbs and some dubious looking bulbs that have been languishing in a paper bag. I pulled up a weed or two and even swept out the ‘air lock’, which is a combination of plant nursery and garden storage.

Himself is tinkering with his van, happy as the proverbial. He says he is installing heated seats and glove warmers. Go figure. But I know I shall be glad of them when w… no, I can’t say that awful word.

The sun is shining and there are magpies nesting in the apple tree outside my bedroom window. The blue tits are not impressed: traditionally this is their tree. The blackbird is furious: he keeps flying up and down the garden shouting his head off.

I feel their pain, but I like magpies. I’m sorry, but I do. I can’t resist calling them magenpies – and sometimes damn magenpies – in honour of Spiros in My Family and Other Animals. The book, that is, not the rather twee television series.

It’s warm and windy and from where I sit I can see narcissus and pansies and muscari and tulips and celandine (illicitly in the lawn) and primula and calendula and budding buddleia. I know there are gladioli and brodiaie and all sorts of goodies to come. I know cos I planted them.

Today spring arrived and I paid tribute to it. Tomorrow I shall work.