SPRING - until it snows again.

Doo doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo, DOO DOOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO! The familiar strains of "Morning" from the Peer Gynt Suite (those old enough will remember that it used to advertise instant coffee) squoze their way out of my imagination and cranked open my eyelids. "Crikey! What was this?" it was sunshine, shouldering aside the cloud and waving, "Hello!". I decided not to be fooled, I got up, showered and poached some eggs. Nope it was definitely sunny, a weak and watery sunny, but a sunny nonetheless. I decided that after "Saturday Kitchen" I would replace my lost winter hat, stolen in Selfridges in December, I dropped it, and it was gone in two minutes, they didn't hand it in, probably coz it was about -5 (centigrade) outside (this was the only time I've ever wished for nits), buy some replacement trainers and that I would buy the wherewithal for making soda bread (I was inspired by a childrens' cookery programme on CBeebies). This is my equivalent of spring-cleaning, all those musty notes and lacklustre pieces of plastic in my wallet, what they need is a good air in balmy weather.
I donned my medium size pack, and headed for town, well, "headed" may not be quite the right term for: down the steep hill, up the steep hill, past the graveyard and down the other steep hill, "traipsed" may be better. One traipse later, and with the memory of the "weak and watery" shining through the crotch of my cords, I ended up in Marks and discovered a bargain in the replacement cords section (this will firmly remain a bargain, so long as I keep out of Primark). As I lovingly stuffed them in the medium pack I resolved not to cycle in them, cycling in corduroys produces a sort of reverse male pattern baldness (MPB), rather like old-fashioned teachers with pipe, tweed jacket with leather elbow patches - bilateral MPB. What were they for those patches? Did they really spend so much time with their head in their hands that they would wear out the elbows of their jackets? Let me think back over the eons to my days at school.... ok, if they were Latin or French masters then that may be true. But I digress.
Wilkinsons to buy a baking sheet... and a bird-feeder.. and two kilograms, TWO KILOGRAMS of bird feed. Even as I sit here tapping away, the bird feeder dangles temptingly from the washing line but so far, no takers. I'm also rather hoping that I have bought a bird-feeder rather than a cat-feeder, I'm quite looking forward to Summer and keeping feline marauders out of my greensward with a super-soaker.
TKMaxx for shoes, I am now the proud possessor of what appear to be a pair of Rohan clogs.
The market, spending in full swing now, but tempered with the knowledge of a decreasing amount of space in the medium pack, and a decreasing amount of muscle tone in my arms, legs and back. I buy lemons and lychees and look fondly at two large cauliflowers for £1.50 but what am I going to do with two large cauliflowers? A cauliflower goes a long way, had Jesus had a couple of cauliflowers on the mount I'm convinced he could have done double the feeding, though there might have been some grumbling from cauliflower despisers but then not everyone likes fish, look you didn't have to come here!
Actually seven lemons will go rather a long way too!
Asda, aka, Hell on Earth. The bad news - this is where I will buy my soda bread wherewithal, like flour, dense, heavy wholemeal flour, buttermilk - fat chance, ok soured cream, heavy soured cream, bicarbonate of soda (molecular weight 84.1, to put that in context water is only 18 and look how much that weighs!), and other foodstuffs notable for their density.
I traipse home, slower, with longer arms, and shoulders rounded by gravity, it's a well-known fact that gravity acts more on plastic bags than any other material (apart from the soul, where it's as heavy as sodium bicarb). But spring is here, it's here in the hazel catkins that have expanded to release their pollen (the botanical equivalent of descending testicles), it's here in the thrusting shoots of bulbs, it's here in male pigeons getting all ruffy and strutty, and most of all, it's here in the warbling tones of the ice-cream van touring the estates.

Under Pressure

I had been to the Battersea Beer Festival with pal Liz, and, after exercising a modicum of decorum and respectability, had arrived back at Hemel Hempstead station after a lengthy journey.
I left the station and began the walk up the hill to home. The walk - a series of four, five minute vignettes: station to first roundabout past the Fisheries Inn, roundabout to the Grapes pub, Grapes pub to crossing of main road, Northridge Way, Northridge Way to front door.
This night: station to first roundabout past Fisheries Inn: slight pressure in bladder due to lengthy train journey and previous visit to beer festival, should I use the Portaloo at the station (toilets being refurbed)? No, no lights and it's only a short walk. Fisheries Inn in sight, wistful stare in direction of Gents, is it worth having a pint to use the facilities, probably wouldn't make any odds (you only get out what you put in - First Law of Thermodynamics and Drinking, N.Hayes 2011), continue to roundabout.
Roundabout to the Grapes: increasing pressure in bladder caused contraction of urinary sphincter and other sphincters that don't exist, ponder the existence of non-existent sphincters, decide I will write a treatise on "The Use of Phantom Sphincters to prevent Mictatory Accident in the Middle-Aged, aka Indiana Jones and the Ring of Doom).

Brief note to older brother Steve, if you remember what happened when you read about the toothpaste incident - art as life - I should go now!

Grapes to Northridge Way: a further increase in pressure pushes my baroreceptors past "full" to "uncomfortably full", bushes and leylandii hedges in peoples gardens start to become animalistically attractive. However the prospect of being hauled off to the chokey for indecent exposure provides a welcome tempering. ("Come along now Sir." "Be with you in a minute - or two, Officer!")
Northridge Way to front door. "Uncomfortably Full" to "Maximum". I have a bladder the size of Jupiter, it is attended by the twin moons of Ganymede and Calypso formerly known as my kidneys. Hang on! Calypso is a water nymph. ...it is attended by the twin moons Ganymede and ....er...Io (much better - seduced by Jupiter disguised as a cloud, think light and airy thoughts) formerly known as my kidneys. Oh look there's the house! This is a moment for potential disaster, in as much as cows let down their milk upon entering the milking parlour, a feature we psychologists know as "operant conditioning", so the nether regions respond to the prospect of relief. An involuntary schizophrenia kicks in, I (though not I) fumble in my (though not my) pocket for my (though no...JUST GET ON WITH IT!) keys. I stop and survey the front garden in a detached manner, while sneaking up on the door lock, which I open and enter.
Hamlet. Act one, Scene one, Line eight!