The daffodils are coming again. Brave little spears, yellow-tipped, very soon to flower now. Very few shoppers go through the supermarket checkout without a couple of little bundles of buds; they may be bar-coded like everything else but each one is a promise of joy and hope.
And this is the last day of February. We’re promised a two or three day sunny break but storms are lashing the other side of the country and I suspect that we’ll see March doing its lion act very shortly.
And there are lambs in the fields.
If it were not for this blessed general election gathering its breath I’d be looking forward to April. I’ve little love for the Labour government but I’m full of fear when I see the Tories prattling empty promises from behind their air-brushed masks. Sometimes it feels like we Brits prosper instead of our politicians, not because of them.
And in the little house under the pines? Graham is happily zinging away at his new ceiling, fixing pine planking and trim all neat and tidy, and singing merrily along with Muse albums. Dolly is zizzing away happily on one or other of the beds upstairs–she does love being able to choose which bed she’ll sleep on today–and all is well with her. I am singing my own quiet song, too, revelling in the sudden freedom from pain. And all is well with me, too. And happy.
