We have a lovely little tree in our front garden. Last week it was ebullient with blossom yet this week it is featureless again, like Morph at Tony Hart's funeral.
That can only mean that Spring, that season of dancing infants and Jane Austen, has launched upon us again and we are just days away from yet another season of unfulfilled expectations and limping dreams. I can hardly wait.
Until then my dears, until then...
