Sometimes I don't like spring. For example, I decide today to not wear a jumper over my pretty blouse, and rush to the castle cafe, nearly sweating under my light khaki jacket, only to return freezing, toes numb. At brunch, T and I chat about books and writing and projects, and I get restless, even on this ostensibly lazy Sunday. All that potential, I love it, but with that, comes the possibility of failure. To begin, and fail, and begin again: that's spring.

The other day I noticed a cherry tree already flowering, so eager is it for spring. Of course it didn't know about the "sudden stratospheric warming" that is imminent or happening, which might or might not result in snow next week. (The bookies' verdict: layer up, folks, and get your ice grips on.) Poor cherry tree—it's only minding its business. It only wants to do what cherry trees do, but there you go. Spring: so many false starts.

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