I've recently discovered Ann Cleeves and her northern detective stories and I'm hooked. Brain fog means that of late crime fiction is pretty much all I can focus on, and she is very good.
The silver birch sways languidly in the fresh north-west breeze and the evening sun warms the brickwork. The horse chestnut is clothed in a pale green mist, not yet leaves but no longer buds. Dandelions, daisies and forget-me-nots have sprung up on the lawn. I'm happy to see them all, even the dandelions. No, especially the dandelions - there's something so cussed and undaunted and cheerful about them, as if they know they're not always welcome and they don't care.
Like I said, a good day. It finally feels like spring.