Mad March haring

Today was the twentieth time we grown-ups have hidden Easter eggs in our garden for the children who, obviously after twenty years, are no longer children. The familiar hiding places become more secure each year as the crevices in the brick wall are weathered deeper and the apple-tree branches become that bit more gnarled but there is little change in the children who still hare around yelping and squawking. Over the years we've made it more complicated by keeping back some of the eggs and hiding them while the hunt is on so nowhere can be considered properly searched until none of us can remember where any other eggs might be. Since they've discovered that grown-ups like egg-hunts too our ritual has developed: they count their stash then hide half of it indoors so they can laugh at us clambering onto tables, under furniture and into dusty corners trying to out-do each other in the egg haul.

All a brilliantly silly way to celebrate the buds, the nests, the promise of warmth and, this year, the lighter evenings which are starting now, outside the window, as I write. Woohoo!

This is probably the only blip this year of the daffodils which are my annual reminder of how grateful I am for my sight.