It was dark - dead of night, so it felt, when I was woken by the blackbird singing its heart out outside my window. But otherwise I'm stuck still in hibernation mode - like the whole of nature around me, it seems. My favourite tree is dead-looking and dropping all its leaves. Never done this before, and we've had it almost 20 years. But this year seems to have been its last straw in its bid to hang on through the winter, dreaming of its native Australia. Always before in February it has burst into clouds of tiny yellow, vanilla and lemon scented flowers.
I feel like I'm dropping my leaves too- hanging on - in hopes. Only last Sunday we picnicked under a deceptive sun, the day seeming to have a Spring in its steps at last. 20 Roedeer ran past and Michael, with his sharp ears, heard a skylark overhead. Yet winter is back with a vengeance and threatens us with a further round of fluey colds, or worse.
Speaking of books into films, (as I did earlier) I heard the 'critics' verdicting on The Lovely Bones. And if I believe what they say- and I'm inclined to on this occasion - my opinion, for what it's worth, is read the book! Forget the film. I shouldn't pronounce on somethingg I haven't seen, but, from what I hear, all the important elements, psychological and spiritual depths and subtleties have been airbrushed by Hollywood, box-office gloss.
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