Little house not on the prairie

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the garden suddenly requires a lot more attention. Spring has officially sprung. While this might seem like the perfect way to jinx the glorious weather of the last three days, I think the countless people wearing shorts have already taken care of that. The safest bet during yesterday's Grand National was that every male in the country between the age of 4 and 40 was probably wearing something that it's still not quite warm enough to wear. But that is what we British do. We see blue skies and we throw on the sunglasses, and get out the barbeque.


Short of a barbeque, we settled for eating our lunch outside, where we were able to feast our eyes on the visual treat that is the washing line on one side and the surrounding houses on the other side. Time to set up a Flickr account I think. For my mother who grew up in a house where the nearest neighbour wasn't even visible, this is hell. But this is what we British do. We build our houses as close together as possible, then build more houses, then add a Tesco.

Not only was I treated to the sights of the surrounding houses, but also the sounds. As a rule anyone who plays their music loud enough to be heard several gardens (cars/rooms/bus seats) away also has awful taste in music. While the obvious solution would simply be to eat inside, it does seem rather a shame on the rare days where we have sunshine, and cake. So out we went; chairs, newspapers and plates in hand. We successfully basked in rays, with only the sounds of the traffic, some unknown pop star, and a pretty hefty bee to disturb us. Like pathetic sunflowers we sat eyes closed and faces pointed towards the source of the warmth, until my mother realised that we were in fact relaxing. A crime second only to murder in her court. 

So in we came; chairs, newspapers and empty plates in hand. Plates were put in the dishwasher, papers were left on the kitchen table, and my mother set off in search of some housework that she hadn't yet done. I too began to leave the kitchen, pausing only to glance at the topmost newspaper section; property. Much like the prediction that up and down the country shorts too are getting their first outing of 2011, you can bet that every weekend my mother and I will stare longingly at these pages, dreaming of a garden where there are no unwelcome sights and sounds. A garden made for the 10 days a year we get sunshine. Because this is what we British do. We head outside as soon as it hits 18°, then wonder why it rains the rest of the year.