The thing about Sunshine

[smokingboot]

... Is that it renders me deeply happy. My base mood lifts so palpably that I can get fierce or angry, but can't sustain it, and sorrow doesn't stand a chance. This morning the birds were in sweet and total riot, probably disbelieving in all this amazing light and heat after that winter, the Beast from the East and its dweeby successor, the Pest in the West.

The birds woke me; hearing them all around is one of the loveliest things about living here.

The Watcher of The Skies tinkles in a way I hope is more babbling brook than b*ggered up cistern, the trees are in bloom and the world feels really fine. Friend and friend's daughter have left after a lovely evening, and there's a pagan event this afternoon, with music, stalls, etc. I was asked if I could speak at this, but at the time I was feeling peaky, not up to creating a talk, so declined ... Now I feel well enough to go, but I'm not crowding into some pub hall on a day like this.

So what is going to happen today? Not very much I suspect. So I shall end with Britishness at its best, rather than the codswallop that is our current government:

I was just part of #AVeryBritishConversation
I had an ear pressed to a birch tree’s trunk, in a suburban street, listening for the gurgle of rising sap.
Man approaches: “Are you vomiting?”
Me: “No, I’m listening to the tree.”
Man: “Oh that’s fine, then. As you were.”
Man leaves. pic.twitter.com/bS7SrBMfEZ

— Robert Macfarlane (@RobGMacfarlane) April 18, 2018