Spring Fever

Finally, finally, I think I can say that Spring has reached London. This happy occasion has advanced on us winter-bitten Londoners slowly, tricking us with unseasonably warm weekends as far back as February before plunging us back into the bleak, dreary weather that our city is so famous for. But today has been the first day that I've actually worn shorts (although the sun has now retreated behind the clouds again as if embarassed-Mr Sun, there's no need to coy-we all know you're there, so quit trying to hide!), and-more importantly-my mother, a woman who took an emergency fleece with her while walking in South Africa, has decided that the heating no longer needs to be turned on at night. A momentous occasion indeed.

Cycling along the river in Chiswick this morning, with the sunlight glancing through the suddenly lush-green leaves of the trees, I realised how scenery that had seemed barren two weeks ago was suddenly full of life. I always find it so hard to believe in the depths of winter that these matchstick models passing for trees are merely hibernating instead of utterly dead-but now I am proved wrong as they bloom and blossom, sprinkling the pavements with confetti-like petals. At last I can feel confident in venturing outside without an extra layer in case the weather turns bad. All I can say now is:

Roll on summer!