Our orange tree is blossoming and the scent is divine. Plus, Shirley-next-door’s jasmine has twined an extra couple of feet through our orange tree and I swear it’s shooting out pheremones through the branches.
As I stood outside this morning, sucking it all in and trying to ignore how badly the deck and furniture need new oil, my gorgeous boy came to the door:
GB: Tan I come outside?
ME: Of course you can, honey.
GB: Tan I come out dere now wit you?
ME: Yes, baby, come out.
GB: Tan I really come out dere right now?
ME: Yep, absolutely, right now, not a problem, is there something bothering you babe?
GB: pointing and looking worried. When I come outside, does dis door stay open?
Now, since he’s only three years old, this past winter is the same length to him as four years of my life. No wonder he’s forgotten what the back door is for.
Other proofs of spring include that I don’t have to turn the lamp on to read my monitoring reports at 6am and the kids suddenly look too pale for summer clothes.
But the real clincher is that the Professor has announced he’s going to bed three times, but is still sitting on the lounge mesmerised by the live telecast of the final cricket match in the current Ashes series. (For the record, as I type England’s 154/4 and that fuckwit Shane Warne has taken all four wickets. Amazing what he can do with his hands when they’re not occupied with yet another woman WHO IS NOT HIS WIFE.)