Today, spring has appeared with it's usual "well I was here days ago you must have blinked and missed me" vibe. Full blown blossoms in the street in town, next to Beata Uhse, fittingly already indecently pink.
There were lambs in the scrubby field next to where I work, already beyond the cute leggy stage, and the hairy drifts of the silver birch branches swayed with the breeze and the sun shone where today rain was predicted.
This year, both slower and faster than ever, as the spring begins a third of the year is past, and only a handful of weeks until a large looming birthday for me, and this year I am acutely aware of aging.
He said, intending to be nice, commenting on an internet picture I'd sent, that my tits weren't as saggy as that, and I thought maybe not the last time you saw them, but it has been a while. I was excited, instead, by kitchen equipment, a new pair of scales and the promise of home baking where I have never wanted to play the home maker with him.
Age is creeping up on me, even my eyelids droop and fold, I am so practised at veiling my gaze.