Le Printemps?

by jemma margaret

The evening I returned from London (delayed, I think, because of a death on the tracks at St Pancras), despite the late hour I could not fall asleep. My toes were cold. My nose was cold. The afternoon had reached a moderate 52 fahrenheit in Paris, but the lack of sun, drafty quarters, and poor circulation rendered my four blankets not quite sufficient.

The clocks have finally sprung forward on this side of the Atlantic, and though this means a post 8 PM sunset the weather is only very very gradually climbing up from winter temperatures.

I hear the south of France is in full spring swing. Somewhere in this country asparagus is growing, not in any quantity to make them affordable, so I enjoyed only a small portion this evening. The skinny ones. Delicious.

On Saturday I’m picking up a strawberry plant from my Ruche. My window sill doesn’t get much light, so I might move it out back and I damn well hope it doesn’t freeze.

The local farmers sport an ever dwindling supply of root vegetables. My favorite autumn apples have run out of stock. The tanning salons are crowded. The daffodils are out with an occasional tulip, too.

April is the cruellest month,

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