About the point we give up and resign ourselves to permanent winter, spring bowls in as if nothing had happened. “What, me? Late? You must be mistaken.”
And as usual spring encourages people to rashly resume neglected sports and join queues at the garden centre. Flesh is bared and barbecues stoked.
But the most certain sign of the season’s change is the heart sinking moment when you realise the windows really must be cleaned.