Spring on the horizon.

 Spring on the horizon.

So here come the joyous moods and mannerisms of the passing seasons. The wintry stillness and sleepiness of those long gone days of November, December and January days are constant reminders of human hibernation, comfort foods and indoor activities, warming our hands by roaring, crackling log fires at the first breakfast of the day and then long, therapeutic walks along nostalgic country lanes, crunching purposefully through thick blankets of yellow and brown leaves and then slowly blooming, beautiful parklands. It is such a privilege. It is a scene we've always found ourselves in during so many days of leisure and relaxation through late Christmas hours. We do it this year and will always do again and again for eternity. 

But here we are at the end of February and yesterday it felt like spring and then we sensed its encouraging omens, felt its soothing rhythms, touched its magnificence, and then abandoned ourselves to its pretty patterns, its picturesque possibilities, the awareness of its stunning revelations, its revealing and tantalising insights, the subtle suggestions of  long, hot summers. It may be February but in June and July we could be back in the rarefied land of 1976 when the glorious heatwave seemed to go on indefinitely. 

At the back of our minds, we are reminded of our youthful solitude and painful shyness, the way it used to be but no longer is. But springtime is just under a month away now and soon we'll herald its arrival with rousing trumpets and bugles. We'll fling open those blinds and curtains and welcome its pristine splendour and glory through wistful windows, the way we always allowed in the honeyed rays of sunshine from early childhood to mature adolescence.

Then we know that something special and auspicious is in our midst. We can see that first carnival of spring's yearly parade, tulips and daisies dancing the bossa nova, the samba, the salsa, the stately waltz. Behind them lies the percussion and windwood section, winds gently blowing and then wafting through doorways, halls, school playgrounds, ageless village churches, rippling excitedly over placid, docile lakes and rivers. It's almost springtime and let's celebrate for the rest of the year and forever more. 

Across Britain, the Commonwealth and the rest of the world, we saw the first oil paintings and watercolours of spring at its most playful and flirtatious, sunlit mornings and afternoons teasing us and then laughing, giggling, acting out children's games of hide and seek. There they are, darting mischievously between thirsty hedgerows, bouncing off the branches from trees that may look neglected but look perfectly content to be where they are. It was always thus for the poets of the world and that's who you are. 

So why do you choose to be poetic at the moment? Yesterday it just felt so appropriate and totally correct. You forgot about political infighting, gang warfare in the House of Commons, the conflicts and confrontations, the bloodletting, the name calling, the blatantly insulting industrial language in the heated corridors of Westminster, the endlessly insoluble wars, disasters, man's inhumanity to man. Yesterday you walked along pavements bathed in the luxuriant yellow glow of sun kissed streets and roads, inhaling deeply the sweetness of life and then something even more rewarding. 

Soon the flora and fauna of nature's loveliest manifestations will be among us. We will see the flamboyant theatricality of the daffodils, red and yellow tulips, the dainty daisy chains delivering their first eloquent sentences. We will sing joyful rhapsodies at the sight of those majestic buds of roses, red blossoms of colour nodding amiably at each other rather like we do when we see that first combine harvester and tractor, acknowledging their existence with a cheerful wave and smile.  

And then we will look forward to those first exciting sounds and acoustics of springtime melodies, perhaps playing our first game of tennis of the year although that may have to wait a little longer. We will hear the delicate, whispering winds of springtime, soft breezes whistling musically, the first harmonious orchestras of the year, nature showing off its first choruses and verses, reminiscent of the classical pianos we played as children and the violins that were always thoughtful and peaceful. 

In a couple of days time, the global Jewish population will be taking to the streets with the festival of Purim and our faces will light up at the Charedi populations who love this time of the year. The children will dress up in fancy dress and the adults will imitate their off spring. Before you know it, thousands of Jewish families will wear the traditional uniform of policemen, Superman, Superwoman Batman, Spiderman, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, inflatable mobile phones and smart phones. They will eat their Hamantaschen with poppy seeds and delicious, sweet flavours, triangular shaped biscuits that you could eat permanently and are irresistible. How good is it to be Jewish and so wonderful. 

But, for the moment at least, it is not quite the time for inviting spring into our home. The preparations and plans are underway and soon children across the world will be gleefully ripping open boxes of Easter eggs and the cuckoos will be exercising their plangent vocal chords. The early mornings will be considerably brighter and you won't need a raincoat or mackintosh anymore, removing at once those pullovers or cardigans immediately before skipping out of the front door with a song in our heart.

So Ladies and Gentleman. It did feel like spring yesterday and our thoughts turned automatically to the past. We found ourselves day dreaming just for a while because we're optimistic and remember 1976. It was 50 years ago that Britain sizzled every single day in record breaking 100 degrees of heat from the beginning of May until the August Bank Holiday. From the moment you woke up to late evening, we witnessed unbroken blue skies, sweltering sunshine, cloudless days, weeks and months and the school summer holidays. It happened every day and how good it felt.

For the moment it's still February and the shortest month of the year which means that we can see March waiting in the wings, rehearsing its lines, imagining idyllic scenarios. February is an excitable child who can't wait for their parents to buy them an ice cream, a ballerina on her first night at Covent Garden, a famous celebrity singer with the voice of an angel. Then the London Palladium explodes into rapturous applause because this is perfection, flawless and absolutely exquisite. Yes, it felt like spring yesterday and that's what it's like and that's the way it'll always be. It's so breath taking.