Light

It is almost – a matter of hours away – British Summer Time. If truth be told, the sun did come out quite a bit over the last couple of days, so that it got quite uncomfortably hot at times. At least, while sitting in the car, with the heating turned up, and a wearing a duffle coat and scarf. But at night the temperature still drops, rock-like. And there are still patches of snow in the garden, hidden in dank shady places which never feel the healing warmth of the sun. The whole of the front garden, for instance; which accounts for the amount of moss slowly taking control of the lawn.

But it is Easter tomorrow; in fact it is here already, it being late on Saturday evening. There is some chocolate over by the window, which I might have a nibble at in a moment, by way of celebration, as there are no Easter eggs in the house. At least none intended for me. And it does seem ungenerous to take a bite out of the children's eggs before they have had a chance to roll them down the nearest hill.

I seem to have spent much of the last few days in church. Perhaps not literally, but not far off. It is an interesting time of the year, church-wise: while things generally follow an unvarying routine for most of the year, for these three days over Easter everything pretty well goes out of the window, and unexpected rites and rituals appear to surprise and entertain you. Which only goes to show how potent change and novelty can sometimes be: they give you a useful jolt out of the rut you sometimes find yourself in, and put the routine of the rest of life into perspective.

Passion

It is still unseasonably cold outside. Up in the hills, last time I looked, the snow was drifting thickly, blocking roads and cutting off isolated villages. Down here, in the suburban lowlands, there have been a few short-lived flurries, but not much more. The biting cold winds of last week have faded away: no longer do they whip round the house all hours of the day and night, howling ominously. But I am still reluctant to go out more than I have to. I have managed a few brief lunchtime walks this week, but even when they start off in pleasant sunshine, grey clouds soon crowd in, and convince you that returning promptly to work and the comfort of a warm computer monitor is a more attractive option. The cat appears mildly confused by it all; which, to tell the truth, isn't saying much, as she seems to be mildly confused by most things, but perhaps even she can tell that this doesn't feel quite right: a few days before Easter and the great occasion of putting the clocks forward, it really ought to be warm and spring-like.

But at least I can look forward to an extended Easter break, having decided to try and make a dent in this year's holiday allowance. Normally at this time of year I would start tidying up the garden and try planting something to add a welcome splash of colour; and possibly decide to do a spot of decorating indoors. But I suspect I will not have much enthusiasm for anything if the weather continues like this: sometimes you need a bit of sunshine to motivate you. And it needs to be reasonably warm outside for paint to dry, I always say, though I suspect people who know about these things would argue otherwise; but even if I am not quite correct technically, you get the gist of what I mean: it is difficult to drum up enthusiasm for sanding walls and sloshing on a spot of emulsion when it is all looking decidedly bleak out. But we shall see: perhaps the weather will improve, and I will surprise myself. Or find some quick-drying paint.

I was listening, while driving to work, to Arvo Pärt's Passio, which seems appropriate at this time of year, being a setting of the Passion according to St John. It draws you in to a strange sound world: somehow sparse and austere, while at the same time mesmerising in its directness and simplicity; a blend of ancient plainchant with 20th century minimalism. The music barely changes: no great dramatic or emotional flourishes; very little happens over the course of an hour. Melodic lines, built on a limited palette of motifs and tone colours specific to each character, seem to repeat endlessly, till your ear learns to pick out subtle variations: instead of grand climaxes, you are rewarded by understated fluctuations in an otherwise unwavering sound scape.

Bun

– There: what do you think?
– Interesting. What is it?
– What is it? What does it look like?
– It is hard to say. At first sight, it seems a little on the shapeless side. But seeing you've just taken it from the oven, and we've already had dinner, I would hazard a guess that it's a pudding. Of some sort.
– Yes. It's a bread and butter pudding.
– Of course. I've heard of those. They are meant to be nice.
– Although without the bread.
– It sounds less tempting now.
– Only because I replaced the bread with hot cross buns. It seemed somehow appropriate.
– Appropriate?
– It being nearly Easter. I thought it would be a nice touch. Even though they are now somewhat unrecognisable. Also, it saved me adding extra raisins.
– It's always a good idea to be sparing with the raisins. You never know when you might need them for something else.
– Yes. Although mainly it was because I forgot to buy any. But I thought the pudding looked quite – authentic. Considering.
– Yes. Now that I know what it's supposed to be, it looks about right.
– They say the proof of the pudding is in the eating.
– Do they?

Tax

– So, according to the calendar, we have arrived in spring. I have to say, it is not particularly spring-like outside.
– Perhaps the calendar is wrong. It happens.
– I'm not so sure it does. At least, not very often. Calendars are generally quite reliable. Correct number of days in the month, laid out in the right order: all that sort of thing is usually spot on. They can work these things out years in advance: plenty of time to check their calculations before they send them off to the printers. It is definitely spring.
– Maybe it is just a little late. It'll arrive before you know it.
– But it's quite cold out, almost wintry. And with a gale blowing at the moment, as you can tell from the eerie howling of the wind around the house. And there is a threat of snow over the next few days. Blizzards.
– It must be spring, because the Chancellor has just announced his spring budget. If there is one person who can be relied on to get his numbers right, it is surely the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
– I hadn't thought of that. You are certainly correct. The Chancellor did announce his budget yesterday.
– Was there anything exciting in it?
– Something about taxes, I think. Rather like last year's.
– Didn't he reduce the duty on beer?
– Yes. I wouldn't have thought of the Chancellor as much of a beer drinker. It just shows how you can so easily misjudge people.

Demise

It was sad to hear yesterday of the planned uprooting of AstraZeneca's research and development capability, over the next three years, away from Alderley Park to a new site in Cambridge. Sad on many counts: the loss of many jobs, compounded by presumably a large number of employees who will decide not to relocate to Cambridge; the loss of a prestigious research facility in the North West of England; the implication that the highest quality science and a successful global business are only achievable by moving closer to the technology and financial hubs of the South East. And a feeling that the pharmaceutical industry, which should be one of this country's flagship industries, is continuing to erode slowly away, with AstraZeneca's plan for re-structuring being just the latest in a series of half-hearted attempts to revitalise a failing company. And in the background, of course, are the families facing an uncertain future, doubtful whether relocation is a sensible or even realistic option, or whether it is time to seek an alternative career. It all seems such a waste of talent: these are highly skilled scientists, working in a field with the potential of generating wealth for the economy and, more importantly, significant advances in healthcare for our society. Yet we are content to watch it disintegrate.

With over 20 years in the industry, my own career has always been turbulent, with precious little security from one year to the next. At the moment, my prospects seem perhaps more settled than they have been for a long time; but you never know how long the present situation will last, and what difficult decisions the future may bring.

Complex

Technology is a wonderful thing. Here am I, trying to write something erudite and entertaining, while listening to a recording of a concert I went to last week. Clearly, had I realised beforehand the BBC were broadcasting it live on Radio 3 I might have decided to save myself the price of a ticket and spent the evening glued to the wireless. Or, as is the case, wait a few days and catch it on iPlayer on the television. But I'm glad I went, despite never feeling particularly energetic after a long working day, as the electric atmosphere of a live concert is a unique experience. Especially so when the BBC Philharmonic is doing Stravinsky's Oedipus Rex, starring Ian Bostridge and Angelika Kirchschlager. Wonderful. Not knowing the piece, I managed to listen to it a handful of times online to get the music and libretto in my head. Pretty scary stuff, the tension heightened by Stravinsky's acerbic score. And not really a happy ending. But a joy to see the drama played out in front of you. Not to mention seeing young Bostridge for the first time, having assembled a large collection of his discs over the years. I need to do this more often: go out more. Listen to great music. While I still have my youth.

Narrow building. Yellow. Not really relevant to the text. Unless it is at a junction of three roads, in which case it has a disturbing significance to the plot of Oedipus Rex. But I can't quite remember if it was.

Scarlet

– Well, the vote was over more quickly than I expected.
– Yes. Probably just as well. I was spending too much time on the internet, forever checking on the latest results. I couldn't have taken many more days of it.
– It was probably worse for the cardinals. Locked away from all communication with the outside world.
– Sometimes I think that might be a welcome relief, to be isolated from the perpetual buzz of modern society. Phone calls, texts, emails, news feeds, bombarding you every hour of the day.
– But you never receive any texts. And precious few phone calls.
– I don't know. There are frequently messages on my answer phone.
– You said they were cold callers offering to chase up your personal injury claims.
– Maybe. But at least they show some interest in my welfare. It is quite touching.
– Perhaps the cardinals had the same problem: they were fed up with cold callers.
– Not to mention that, had they stayed conclaved much longer, they would have missed Red Nose Day.
– I'm not sure they are really in to Red Nose Day in the Vatican City.
– A pity. It is all for a good cause, you know. Charity, and all that.

Smoke

So, one hundred and fifteen cardinals have been carefully locked away till two-thirds of them agree on the identity of the new pope. As election processes go, this has much to commend it, though it is probably impractical to lock up the entire British electorate for, say, the next parliamentary general election or a referendum on whether we stay in Europe (as opposed to moving to whatever other continent takes our fancy: Australia would be sunnier, if nothing else). It would never work on a large scale: shut away with the rest of the voting population for perhaps weeks or months or years on end, we would likely never reach a consensus. And there would be no-one left outside the conclave to keep the country running, or send in food parcels, apart from small children and visiting foreign nationals. And prisoners, though presumably they would still be in prison, and hence not much use with the food parcels.

But the idea of just keeping going till you reach a result that most people are happy with, or at least – once they have lost interest with the whole process – resigned to, is attractive. Compared to our usual first-pass-the-post system, it takes away the temptation for tactical voting, at least until it becomes clear that no front runner can command a majority, at which point a compromise candidate begins to look attractive. I always thought it was a pity that we never went for a more proportional voting system when we last had a referendum on the subject: it seemed a sensible way forward, despite politicians from the main parties proclaiming it was the first step on the slippery slope to the breakdown of civilisation. But they do tend to exaggerate these things. And then they slipped in an alternative voting system into the recent election of police commissioners. And society didn't descend into anarchy. As far as I can tell.

Viral

– You appear to be under the weather.
– Yes. I seem to have picked something up. A cold.
– You had a cold a couple of weeks ago. Has it lasted all this time?
– No. This is a new one. Although superficially it looks similar and has basically the same symptoms, I am confident that deep down it is uniquely different from the last cold.
–  Well, that's something to be thankful for: a bit of variety. I suppose it's comforting to know that your respiratory system represents a hospitable environment for any passing bug in search of shelter. Altruistic of you, in a way.
– I like to do what I can to help.
– You don't suppose it's catching, do you?
– Well, I guess I must have caught it at some stage. These things don't just appear from nowhere. Unless they evolve quietly from something else. Perhaps from some spare cell of mine that wasn't doing anything useful.
– Only I'm not particularly keen to go down with some unpleasant infection.
– It's not all that unpleasant. Though spending a whole day sneezing isn't much fun. Not to mention the listlessness. And lack of sleep. Now that I come to think about it, I suppose it is fairly unpleasant.
– Perhaps you should be quarantined. Put into isolation. Just to be on the safe side. And for the benefit of the rest of humanity.
– How long for?
– As long as it takes. I could come and visit you occasionally. Or, at least, wave at you through the window.

Stirrings

– I'm never sure what to make of March.
– How do you mean?
– Well, it's not easy to put into words. But, I suppose, as months go, March is somehow – different.
– I always think February is a bit odd. Seems too short. You would have thought they would have noticed by now. And fixed it.
– February is February, and probably the better for being short. I mean, it brings the sudden realisation that the New Year has come and gone, and there you are still with a Christmas tree in the back garden waiting to be taken to the tip. Not to mention all your noble and selfless resolutions lying in tatters at your feet. So February is mildly traumatic in its own way. And then suddenly you are hurled into March. And that feeling of inadequacy and failure gets so much worse.
– I can't say I've ever noticed...
– Well, there is the dawning realisation that a sixth of the year has flown by. And hence if you felt you were under-achieving at the start of February, everything just seems twice as hopeless by the time March arrives. And then there are the faint stirrings of spring.
– Which surely are a cause for celebration.
– Or are they? You suddenly remember you have a garden – which you haven't been into since November – and things need to be done. Plans need to be made: should you re-lay that threadbare patch of lawn? Do the flowerbeds need a serious overhaul? Is it worth getting someone in who knows which end of a spade to use? And not just the garden: you start to ask yourself which bits of the house need repairing or re-decorating or re-furnishing. And so on.
– I did a bit of gardening last weekend...
– There you go. The pressure has started.
– Basically, you just don't want to make any plans. Or feel you have to get started on all the jobs that you happily ignored over the last few months on the basis that it was winter and you were justified in spending all your time on the sofa working your way through several boxes of mince pies.
– That's not entirely true... But it's uncannily pretty close.

Lion

March has arrived: not so much like a lion, to tell the truth. Which is probably a good thing, lions being quite captivating from a distance but rather more worrying at close quarters. There has been some welcome sunshine over the last few days, which makes you hope we've seen the last of winter, though deep down you suspect we haven't. Which is maybe where the whole leonine thing comes from: perhaps when you least expect it, it pounces on you from nowhere. Out of a tree, say. (Do lions pounce from trees?)

Ignoring the risk of things falling out of trees on top of me, I went for a wander around the woods at Alderley yesterday, to make the most of the bright weather, just in case it doesn't hang around. Perhaps it is just me, but I find it is easy to get disoriented in a forest: after a while, all trees start to look the same. The path you thought was just behind you to your left has been mysteriously replaced by a shrub. There are strange rustlings. Half-glimpsed shapes scurry about the undergrowth. The sun, shining so brightly in the car park, is somehow feeble and cheerless above the foliage. Dusk sets in rapidly, despite it being the middle of the afternoon. Personally, I think it's something to do with the Edge itself: an unsettling sort of place, enshrouded in legend and mystery. Lions are probably the least of your worries.