Antithesis

Another glorious out of season summer's day in March; my cup indeed runneth over.
I can walk about in a t-shirt and sit outside under my sun umbrella reading the papers, all the while keeping an eye on the tide of humanity sprawled on the grass over the railings.

His Lordship can barely cast his eyes paper wards so wonderful is it for him to see and appreciate as only a red blooded man can the lithe, beautiful females before his eyes.

The downside to this sea of young people will be the wasteland of plastic bags they feel free to leave behind in situ after they leave.
But I don't want to deliver this year's rant so early in the season. Badly brought up is the phrase springing to mind.

Lest you think I have done nothing but relax outside, let me tell you that there was an hour's aerobic exercise at an hour when, unless you were on night shift, you would be tucked up in bed, and after that, there was a walk to Greyfriar's churchyard to capture this blip of early blossom amongst the old gravestones, before a cycle around town delivering birthday presents to the chosen ones.

In compensation for all this exercise, I have to admit to engaging with one of two enormous tubs of ice cream which his Lordship staggered home with from his morning expedition. When I say enormous, my lord doesn't do things by half, and I of course, lack any sort of will power.

There will be more sitting outside while I try and read the book for the Book Group tonight. One Thousand Sycamore Trees by Mira Stout is a novel set in Korea during the upheavals of the last century.
Once again I have been caught short on the reading front; my knuckles will be well and truly rapped, but I will blame Blipfoto for using up my time.