Flooded fields, puddles in the middle of borders, bubbling manholes, brick paths as slippery as ice – all these have become the norm. The wetness of winter and spring have been a disaster and I only hope that by the time you read this it will be a memory. I loathe and resent it but wearily accept it as beyond my control. But the earliness of everything has crept up on the edge of the appalling weather and shunted the garden at least two weeks ahead of itself. And that is very odd indeed.
But is it odd that it seems odd? Why do we expect the seasons to behave in a predictable and orderly fashion? British weather prides itself on switching from rain to sun to snow to bright sun like a sugar-surfeited toddler. We talk about it incessantly, exasperated but proud, even smug in the certainty that it is ours, that we have accommodated and adapted to it. Whereas those in warmer climes, with their dully predictable sunshine and crisp winter cold, are mentally if not physically soft.
But we expect our seasons to rise above this. Come hail or shine, spring should manifest itself in an orderly parade of bulbs, foliage and blossom within a narrow calendar. That is right and proper and matters. It is how we measure out our days.