Spring, they keep telling me, has arrived. But to date the weather has been worryingly variable, with the occasionally sunny spell being harried by sullen downpours. I have planted a couple of flowers in zinc pots in the front garden (violets I think they were meant to be) to try to add a splash or two of colour. They are doing well, given the vagaries of the climate. And I scattered something or other over the lawn in a futile attempt to fend off the luxuriant carpet of moss that has sprung up and chased off all hope of grass. But gardening has never been one of my strengths. To pit your wits against the forces of nature has always seemed a somewhat pointless task.
At least the evenings are getting steadily brighter. I ought to be outside, making more of them. But it is one of those times of the year when there seems to be a lot of football on the television, as the Premier League and FA Cup and Champions League and Europa League all reach their final stages. It is all too easy to settle down on the sofa and watch a game or two rather than, say, nip outside for a quick triathlon. I can get the ironing done, but not much else. So even if I end up as an overweight couch potato, at least my shirts will look smart.
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