The first decent English winter I can remember for a long time is over, and everywhere March, with his sweet showers, is piercing the drought of February to the root.
I woke up so early this morning that I decided it was technically still last night, and that it would be OK to have a smoke before I went back to bed.
Sitting in the garden with a cup of tea and a cigar, watching the sky lighten, there was a wonderful, beautiful cacophony of birdsong.
The glorious sound of a thousand new creatures, all shouting, at the tops of their voices: "Does anyone fancy a fuck?"
Is it any wonder that England has the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe when Nature herself is screaming the imperative to immortality from every hedgerow?