I’ve come over all pastoral and may descend into madrigals at any minute.  You have been warned.

Nary a week ago, they were planted: tiny brown seeds – dry, dusty, lifeless.  This morning, they are fresh green seedlings, bursting with life and urging me to get on with making their beds.   It’s bloomin’ amazing.

On Friday, the Rowan tree in the garden backing onto ours didn’t have leaves.  Today it does.  Magic.

And our acer tree, planted in memory of GrannieBorders who loved the acer in our previous garden, is suddenly covered in tiny pink buds. Marvellous.

Yesterday was a golden day, amid the watery sunshine and birdsong.  ActorLaddie was off doing London-Guiding stuff so I spent my time digging the back border.  I had great company – the mighty Miss Read on my iPod – and am nearly halfway through.  There are some pretty tenacious old roots there, which doubles the satisfaction when they finally surrender.

In the evening, I collapsed in front of a log fire – completely exhausted, but in a good way.

I apologise for any resemblance to Bertie Wooster’s friend Madeline “every time a fairy blows its wee nose, a baby is born”  Bassett.  But wherever I look, there are flowers that bloom in the spring, tra la.  Grape hyacinths, wallflowers, forget-me-nots.  Not to mention daffodils.  Glorious, gorgeous, golden daffodils; bloomin’ hosts of them.

I’d write a poem about it.  But that would just be silly.