The Wrongs Of Spring

• The grass is growing like a bastard. The dog vanished yesterday. The children are putting up rope-lines like they use in the Antarctic to navigate from hut to hut in blizzard conditions. I'm pretty sure a tribe of headhunters has set up camp somewhere under the bay tree. Unfortunately, every time I try to get out the lawnmower, it rains again.
• Wattles are wonderful. Their golden inflorescence paints the mountainsides with living sunlight. And makes me sneeze until my head inflates like a cheap party favour.
• The cats are freaky. Both neutered males, one getting up for eight or nine years of age... but come springtime, they start bolting through the house in pursuit of random phantoms. They lurk in corners and leap out, tag your leg, then lay their ears back and sprint like hell for the cat-flap.
• The rabbits are breeding. I can hear them. It's like a gigantic hillside of rabbit porn out there. Make them stop!
• The daffodils have pretty much finished blooming. So now we have masses of tall, skinny clumps of grassy stuff hanging around, looking embarrassed for itself. And I can't mow 'em because there's some irises lurking in there that haven't bloomed yet. And besides, it rains every time I get out the lawnmower.
• I feel like a dickhead every time I put damp laundry in the dryer. But every time I decide to hang the stuff out to catch some of that glorious spring sunshine, the rain comes back.
• The sun gets up way before I want to join it. And it's getting noisier and more bolshy every day.
• Am I cold? Why is it so dark? Oh shit, it's raining. Better get the electronic dog-bark defeater inside!