Spring has well and truly sprung in our garden here in Suffolk, and the evidence is all around. I’m not talking about the bright yellow daffodils, the peas poking their little heads through the soil, or even the everlasting calls of the woodpigeons.
No, this morning our garden holds even more tangible proof that spring has arrived: washing on the line; a papier-mache snake (school project – though I ended up finishing it off) lying on the lawn to dry; the remains of my breakfast on the patio table and, most telling of all, a figure in pyjamas wandering around with a watering can and big grin.
Yes, that would be me. Spring is when I put on the husband’s old shoes with my PJs and find myself up to my elbows in the soil immediately after breakfast. (Summer is when I dispense with shoes altogether and find myself out there even before breakfast.)
There is rhubarb waiting to be made into crumble, self-sown coriander all over the veg patch waiting to be sprinkled over chilli, and there is dirt under my fingernails. Spring is here.