Spring battles on regardless

although it is snowing heavily here.

These scenes, taken from earlier in the week when

it seemed to have got its act sorted.

In passing

Sleep, like this spring, is fitful.

The sun when it appears, lifts my spirits instantly

and I tackle a hundred jobs with gusto.

For the rest of the time,

I am somewhat in a state of suspense.

This summer will bring unwelcome changes

but surely plenty to rejoice in too.

I will return with more tulips and bluebell woods presently

because they must not pass unrecorded.

Speaking of which:
we have an abiding love for Victoria Wood.
We saw her live at the Royal Albert Hall,
and my younger son rather surprisingly learnt to sing all the words to
The Ballad of Freda and Barry with a lively piano accompaniment.
He saw her only recently enjoying a meal in Borough Market with friends
but was too shy to interrupt her.

Moving day

I felt sure someone would want to own this house one day.

I only had to wait twenty five years to get a buyer.

Henry and me

I am not sure

why I have

a signed photograph

of Henry Moore.

(I found it in my box of ephemera.)

We met his Reclining Mother and Child

on our last visit to Kew.

On an unrelated matter.

How can I possibly be

62?


Perhaps I should now read War and Peace
as Mary Hobson did.
So moved was she, that she started to learn Russian 
while convalescing age 56, so that she could read the original 
and then enrolled at the University of London at age 62
and completed her PhD aged 74.
She won the Pushkin Gold Medal for translation.

Oh and she is now at 89 in training for a 5km run.