The world from my window

Up in the fields, the bluebells are uncurling. There's a frost in the corner but May is bursting out in the hedgerow.   There are swathes of cuckoo flowers and dandelion clocks. There's a dead nettle in a gateway, full of spare slippers for the fairies for when they go out dancing tonight. Down on the allotment, an early bird is listening to political debate on Radio 5 Live, the radio blaring out from an open window of his car while he digs in the manure. I can hear Nicky Campbell having a spirited discussion with a weasel. In the heart of Lush Places, blue things other than bluebells have sprung up over the croquet lawn and all over the village. They are everywhere. There are a couple of signs for Labour down the road but sadly they're tucked away, unlike the UKIP house in the next village which ought to close its own front door, pull down the blinds and leave Wessex, brick by brick. This whole election thing is leaving me rather cold. I...

The world rushes on around me. We have Indiana Brown on his Last Crusade dealing with the fallout from his very silly ' bigoted woman ' remark (only the penitent man will pass Gordon, and you've still got the leap of faith to go), and politicians of all sides queuing up to have a pop at the weary leader. Meanwhile, in Greece, the economy is in tatters and Germany holds the purse strings. But as I walk my dogs this morning, a sound fills me with such joy I know that, whatever happens, all is well with the world. The unmistakable voice of the cuckoo. Her call has not been heard here for years. It makes me smile. The cuckoo flowers are washing the fields with drifts of pink, the bluebells are coming out on the banks and in the woods. And the swallows and house martins dart in and out of the square, chattering as they go. A pair of Brent geese flap by, pointing out places of interest along the way. All we are waiting for is the ceremonial unveiling of the bronze nymph who welco...