Spring And A Joke

Spring

Spring has arrived in Mollans before the end of February. It's not unusual here to have a day very early in the year when it is possible to eat outside at lunchtime but we have now had two in the last ten days. And I've already played boules in shirt-sleeves on several afternoons. The weather is still unpredictable and I've no doubt we will have some cold spells over the next couple of months but the winter is defintely over and spring here.

As if the weather wasn't indication enough local flora have underlined the point, with primroses and violets blooming, as also are almond trees in the orchards. But spring is the season when I miss England most. A friend and I reminisced recently about this. We both now live in climates where the interval between winter and summer is shorter and less gentle than in England. We both miss the plethora of spring flowers. Here, in the wild, you can find primroses, violets and, which you can't find growing wild in England, tulips. But where are the bluebells, wood anenomes, daffodils, foxgloves and honeysuckle that adorn the English countryside in spring? I specifically miss the smell of deciduous woods in England, fetid but pleasant, when heat gets to the damp under the trees and creates an almost sub-tropical feeling in which you can sense rebirth stirring. «Oh to be in England…….» as Wordsworth wrote.

Yet there is still plenty to like about spring here. Spring always gives me a psychological boost and gets me rummaging in the back garden and among the pots in the front, clearing out the winter debris, seeing which plants have succumbed to the rigours of winter and need to be replaced, spreading fertiliser and getting ready for the early summer show of flowers. And watering for the first time; we haven't had any significant rain for weeks and the ground badly needs some. Despite what I miss in the English spring, spring here is still one of my favourite times of the year.

A Joke

A joke came my way recently that has particular resonance in the Brexit situation. It goes as follows.

A politician dies and finds himself in front of St Peter. « What did you do in life ? » asks St Peter.

«I was a politician», the politician replies.

«Ah», says St Peter, «there is a new rule for politicians. They have to spend one day in hell and then come back to me and vote to go to heaven or hell. So you will go to experience hell tomorrow and, the day after, come back and see me again to vote».

The next day the politician wakes up in bed in a sumptuous hotel room. Outside the sun is shining and the room has a view over a beautiful beach and adjoining golf course. The sea is clear and calm and beautiful bikini clad girls are palying on the beach. The politician can hardly believe his eyes but rushes out to enjoy himself. He has a wonderful time and, returning to his hotel in the evening, finds a delicious banquet awaiting him. The next morning he finds himself in front of St Peter again.

«Well», says St Peter, «you have seen hell and now it is time to vote. Do you vote for heaven or hell ?»

The politician is in a quandary. «I was sure I was going to vote for heaven», he says, «but now that I have seen hell I can't think of anywhere better so I vote for hell.»

The next morning he wakes up on a bed of nails, the smell of sulphur in his nostrils, the sound of people screaming in agony in his ears and a monster in front of him, glaring at him.

«Who are you?» asks the politican.

«I am Satan», the monster replies.

«But where is the hotel, the beach and all the girls?» the politician complains.

«You were a politician», Satan says. «you know how it is. The hell you saw was hell before you voted. You've voted now and this is what you get.»

If think that is quite a good joke. If you want a bad joke, think about Brexit.