Two thirds of the way through April, and I have turned the bathroom heated towel rail on again. I’m back in my winter pyjamas, and another W, wooly jumpers are helping to keep me warm. The rough winds that shake the darling buds of May are making themselves felt now too, but the sun has not yet got its strength up, so those winds feel pretty chilly.
Maybe it was warmer back in 1616 when William Shakespeare breathed his last. This summer promises to be even more of a Bill Fest than usual, with the Blessèd Bard getting enormous amounts of exposure. Will Power, as the RSC used to say its advertisements. I haven’t yet looked at the Globe’s programme, but if I don’t get my skates on soon, there’ll be no tickets left.
If it is going to remain this chilly, I may rethink my bolt to das Boot next weekend. But equally, I am tugged by the desire to see what the goslings are doing, if the grebes are nest-building, how the lambs are growing. I’d like to go and visit Aunt’s grave; walk some of the country lanes; know that my ‘phone connection may well fail.