The Vicar's Wife

Whilst I was away on a fab conference last week, the weather went all spring-like. This is normally an indicator of sprouting snow drops and daffs, of nesting birds and budding trees. But here in the Vicarage, Spring is heralded by the chirupping of the front door bell. Especially on Saturdays.

When I answer the door, I am confronted by two, three or even four hopeful looking little faces:

Can we come and play?

And so I’m dusting off the garden rules (no one in the garden if they’ve not said ‘hello’ to me, only one bouncer on the trampoline at a time, your mum must know that you’re at the Vicarage etc) and counting heads and enjoying (usually) happy squealing. And that’s it for the next eight months or so, with brief intermissions for bad weather. Now, where are my gardening gloves?