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.
