What’s the surest sign of Spring? Lighter evenings? Nope. Birds twittering? Nah. The whirring of lawns being mown. No. People blogging about the weather, like me or Jennytc, or Blonor Regis? Possibly.
No, the real answer is barbeque lumpwood charcoal or briquettes on special offer in Morrison’s. They either read us like a book or we are Pavlov’s pooches, either way let the temperature creep above coat wearing weather and the sun appear (albeit briefly) and we’re meant to chuck a few steaks on the barbie.
Well, if it’s nice later then the bbq is coming out for it’s first airing. Miss P will hate it. She isn’t keen on the meat-feste that is the barbie. Ironic that given that Easter commemorates a Jew who is said to have died for our sins, and here we are lobbing another pork chop on the fire.
Not very sensitive, and I haven’t yet registered Muslims yet on my offendometer.
The weekend may (may) be fine enough to cook stuff on an open fire, but the main thing is that it’s Easter. No matter how early or late it falls, the weather is invariably good enough to wash the car, mow the lawn or any other outdoor chore.
And that has nothing to do with God, just the one he borrowed it from, ie Oestre, our forgotten goddess of fertility and the coming of Spring. (And where the word oestrogen comes from.) Smart lads the church — take something from the old religion that works and turn it into your own, and tell people that it’s actually something completely different.