Spring is not spring for all. I went to tea the other day at the house of a wealthy friend of mine who I had gone to university with, and who has had a troubled life. When I arrived, I was surprised to look out at the extensive gardens (famous in the neighbourhood) and see nothing but dark beds of soil. Usually this time of year, they are in their first cycle of daffodils and the beginning of tulips. We walked around in the cold, and she said that it was the first spring she hadn't dreaded in 10 years. She had decided not to plant anything, to let nothing happen. Her father -- whom she loved dearly -- had died 10 years earlier, and he had been a famous gardener. The only request he made to her before he died was that she keep the garden going. She said to me: "I hated every spring, all those flowers coming to life, and him dead. I hated planning them, I hated bringing in the gardener, I hated planting them, I hated watching them grow. I used to sit on my knees in the cold mud and plant these things crying all the time. Summer wasn't so bad. But spring...." There is obviously a lot more going on here than I can talk about -- I suspect that a "fallow year" for her is not a bad thing. I think the flowers will return next year. Nevertheless, it was funny in a sad way to see how relieved, even happy she was, looking out at mounds and frames of dark ground where nothing was happening everywhere.