A pinch and a punch. The first of the month

Well, it may be a bit early in The Great Scheme Of Things tm, but here chez moi, or more importantly directly outside my window, Spring has been sprunging and grass rizzing.

At least it was last night.

Master Norbert, the Bromfelde fox was clearly in one of those moods down the end of the garden, and Mistress Daisy was good enough to reciprocate. Anyway, the noise of two furry quadrupeds making hot monkey love outside my window at around 3.30 this am has left your correspondent, gentle reader, ready to roll back the centuries and invite in the Lambeth Hunt.

It's not that these two bloody canines are getting something that I'm not you understand, though it could be if they do it again tonight (there are many gardens around here, why is ours the comfy canine seduction zone?). No. It is an awareness that the year is moving on, sap is rising and Mother Nature's little horrors are stirring.

Fun in the country, fab if you're a nature correspondent and normally I'd be the first to shout 'Rar' and gambol off cavemanning down the road.

BUT

The return of life to the world is presaged by the slow and sullen blooming of the cherry tree up the street. It is the only thing on this planet that I know I am allergic to. And the early morning carnal activities of Master Norbert and Mistress Daisy have reminded me that the sullen little buds of pink and verminous little shoots of green are beginning to sprout on the branches of said vile growth.

I have maybe a week before the onset of merry mucus March proper.

Beware the Ides of March indeed.

Wise, wise words.

A pinch and a punch. The first of the month

Well, it may be a bit early in The Great Scheme Of Things tm, but here chez moi, or more importantly directly outside my window, Spring has been sprunging and grass rizzing.

At least it was last night.

Master Norbert, the Bromfelde fox was clearly in one of those moods down the end of the garden, and Mistress Daisy was good enough to reciprocate. Anyway, the noise of two furry quadrupeds making hot monkey love outside my window at around 3.30 this am has left your correspondent, gentle reader, ready to roll back the centuries and invite in the Lambeth Hunt.

It's not that these two bloody canines are getting something that I'm not you understand, though it could be if they do it again tonight (there are many gardens around here, why is ours the comfy canine seduction zone?). No. It is an awareness that the year is moving on, sap is rising and Mother Nature's little horrors are stirring.

Fun in the country, fab if you're a nature correspondent and normally I'd be the first to shout 'Rar' and gambol off cavemanning down the road.

BUT

The return of life to the world is presaged by the slow and sullen blooming of the cherry tree up the street. It is the only thing on this planet that I know I am allergic to. And the early morning carnal activities of Master Norbert and Mistress Daisy have reminded me that the sullen little buds of pink and verminous little shoots of green are beginning to sprout on the branches of said vile growth.

I have maybe a week before the onset of merry mucus March proper.

Beware the Ides of March indeed.

Wise, wise words.