No denying the signs.

Rates bill. Crocuses on cue.

Daffodils rearing up

Like golden puff-adders.

Open to the neck, voices

Are louder. Unmuffled.

The lid lifted off the sky.

In the air, suddenly,

A feeling of ‘je sais quoi’.

I take the dog into the park.

Let myself off the lead.

- Roger McGough

I fall on my knees every Sunday
At Zerelda Lee’s candy store

Well its got to be a chocolate Jesus
Make me feel good inside
Got to be a chocolate Jesus
Keep me satisfied

Well I dont want no Abba Zabba
Dont want no Almond Joy
There ain’t nothing better
Suitable for this boy
Well its the only thing
That can pick me up
Better than a cup of gold
See only a chocolate Jesus
Can satisfy my soul
When the weather gets rough
And its whiskey in the shade
It’s best to wrap your savior
Up in cellophane
He flows like the big muddy
But thats ok
Pour him over ice cream
For a nice parfait

Well its got to be a chocolate Jesus
Good enough for me
Got to be a chocolate Jesus
Good enough for me

Well its got to be a chocolate Jesus
Make me feel good inside
Got to be a chocolate Jesus
Keep me satisfied

“Nice open topped sports-car there – but are we going to be having the right weather for driving such a thing? Here’s … to tell us.” (Camera switches to the weatherman, and I’m frozen with shocked mirth).

So no other issues with driving the car, then? Nothing slightly weird tinkering at the back of your mind as you cruise along? Just hoping you don’t get wet, huh?

According to the BBC news site, the Alfa-Romeo was sold at a Cheltenham auction, and expected to sell for up to £1m, while Damian Jones, motor car specialist at auctioneers H&H, said:

“It’s a completely unique car – one of a kind.

Mussolini was effectively responsible for saving Alfa Romeo from going to the wall with state intervention.

He was a great motorsport and car fan. The car’s racing history alone makes it special.”

Well, there we are, a bargain no doubt.

I saw the girls in clouds,

Like clouds they were, and soft and bright,

But in the crowds

I thought on the maid who is my light,

Down-drooping, soft as the grey twighlight;

She is my mate

I went out by the Tower on the Wall,

I saw the girls in flower,

Like flowering rushes they swayed and bent,

But in that hour

I thought on the maid who is my saint,

In her thin white robe and her colouring faint;

She is my all.

Chinese Lyric, 680 B. C.

translated by Helen Waddell (1885-1965)

(from A Book of Beauty, John Hadfield, 1976)