Sun is shining this morning, green snubs of leaves are poking through the pots where I planted bulbs, catkins dangle on what I think are birches, and a scattering of white blossom illuminates the occasional tree. Spring is on its way.
Meanwhile I am still recovering from the shock of being described as suburban. Yes, I know. I live in the suburbs. But I still secretly thought of myself as a sophisticated urbanite.
To be fair, I wasn't actually called suburban. A close friend died a year ago and her husband has a new lady friend (good for him - my friend would not have wanted him to mourn for ever.) The lady friend came to the party we held at Christmas, to which other local friends and neighbours had been invited. Afterwards my husband asked my friend's husband if the new lady friend had enjoyed herself. We thought she might have been a bit nervous under the circumstances.
Apparently his reply was equivocal - he said "Well, B is quite an urban person."
I did wonder if I had misinterpreted this so I asked the others in our book club (are book clubs suburban?). They were sure I hadn't - and we then spent ten minutes trying to come up with things we did that made us either urban or suburban. See below. Any other suggestions welcome.
Urban: Going to a show at the Royal Academy and coming back with a catalogue.
Suburban: Going to the Boat show and coming back with a kitchen mop.
Urban: Buying books at Daunt's
Suburban: Buying books at the Hospice charity shop
Urban: Talking about the ship in a bottle in Trafalgar Square
Suburban: Talking about the number of bottles you put out for wheelie bin collection
Urban: A bike
Suburban: An Oyster card
Urban: Shopping in Fortnum's
Suburban: Shopping at Waitrose (although I did spot one in Belgravia)
Um - maybe I am suburban after all ....