My kind of cuckoo

This weekend I witnessed the first sign of Spring around here. That's right - the Greatly Regretted Boob Tube.

It's Spring! Come are the days to carry clothes I won’t need unless I don’t bring them. It's my time to boldly misidentify birdsong, inventing passerines on the hop (don’t tell Mr G). I'll go stand under the neighbour’s grand magnolia, urging the buds on by thinking ker-bloom. Likewise, I shall ask lambs to gambol, demonstrating as necessary. By tradition, I will honour every skylark and bluebell patch with a poetic ooh-look-ooh.

There will be mud and dirty windows. Too many hot cross buns. I will feel younger but be shown older. Experience again that ticklish mix of non-specific hope, undirected impatience, and body qualms. I’ll get caught daydreaming during conversations.

For there will be Other People, emerging from their winter hideys as do bees and butterflies, flies and clothes moths. Those people will drift on the breeze to the beach. A few will whistle. Some will gather ice creams, others hunt for suntraps, the boldest will hokey-cokey paddle at the sea’s edge.

Yes, it’s Other People-watching season. For where there are people, there are fascinating characters, especially while Spring tickles them. Gaits and mannerisms, hats and style, a whiff of whatever, snatches of conversation, the way an ice cream need not be eaten, the chasing of a windblown paper. These go into my notebook while Gonzo (my inner creative) bounces about. They’re a spy on a mission, Gonzo says, they’re disgraced royalty, fey and/or aliens. Ooh-look-ooh, Gonzo says, they’re obviously a time travelling disco star.

And Gonzo is usually right. They wish you happy imaginings, wherever you may be.