Some years, spring creeps up on you, silently sneaks past, and it's not until you look back that you realised it's started already. This year, however, spring has arrived with a poke in the ribs, a giggle and a pinch on the bottom. Friday, finally, the sun came out, butterflies spiralled in pairs, shagging on their minds, and bumblebees dithered with their aerodynamically unlikely wings wondering when the hell the flowers would all come out.
Spring. Eighteen days late but, now, definitely here.
Today the sky stayed blue and the sun warmed the skin, a promise of summer to come. We made the most of it in Kate's garden with blanket and cushions to make the sloping grass more comfortable. The drone of a biplane swimming through the thick air, describing lazy loop-the-loops and barrel rolls against the backdrop of rippled cirrus clouds, counterpointed by the mocking staccato laugh of passing rooks. The slightest hint of bruised grass in the nostrils, the distant sound of a lawnmower set free from its shed for the first time this year. The occasional breath of wind to remind that spring is still young and what warmth the sun gives the clouds can take away just as fast.
And then a glass of chilled Chardonnay to hand to ease one into delightful daydreams. Duran Duran's Rio on the iPod, evoking memories of summers past, some spent lying hidden away amongst the tall stems of wheat where none but the ladybirds could find me; some of the walk from Tal-y-Bont halls of residence in Cardiff, walking through the park to Uni; others of holidays in Cornwall, the sand sticking to my skin, my brother shouting in the distance from the breaking surf. Newer memories too, of walks through the summer heat over Horton Heath – or what precious little remains of it since the land was raped by the horse-owning shotgun-toting savages who destroyed so much rare habitat with their ploughs and ignorance. And even newer still, of gigs at Wembley, Earl's Court, the CIA and most recently, the Hammersmith Palais; of realising that I'm 'in the demographic'. Amazing how many memories a song can evoke, layered one atop the other, stratified.
Very nearly the perfect afternoon. Just one thing – one person – missing.
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