In the oncology clinic at Addenbrooke’s, my latest blood test went pretty well, but I got a bit down in the mouth anyway, because for someone in my condition, even a good result is a reminder that you have to go on throwing a double six to stay in the game. In the cab home, however, gloom was soon dispelled by the sight of the flowers in the lawns of the college “backs”, so called to help foreign visitors grasp the Cambridge concept of a back yard that looks better than anybody else’s front yard.

Some of the daffodils had been on display for weeks, but now they had tripled their numbers and were being joined by searching bursts of crocuses, erupting like Byzantine tracer through the grass. Or perhaps Botticelli’s Primavera girl had just gone dancing through, or Matilda from Dante’s Earthly Paradise. Or perhaps they were just crocuses. Good of them, though, to arrive just in time for me to notice.

Back at home, I began to make my plans for yet another in the string of springs that I never expected to see. This year, with the help of my family, I intend to be better ready to play host to any birds that choose to visit my back garden. My family’s advice is crucial. For several months now, I have had a bird feeder hanging from the ceiling of my canopied balcony. It was hanging too low, and every time I ventured out, I rammed it with my head, thus very effectively black-jacking myself. My wife has now moved it so that I can no longer achieve this effect.

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The new position of this bird feeder, one of several that I possess, is now nearer the bike shed. But it might be too near: last spring, the local squirrel, called Cyril, cleaned out the bird feeders before attacking the coconut halves full of the special mix meant for birds. I used to watch Cyril the Squirrel lean down from the gutter of the bike shed and scoff the lot. Later on, I would tell my granddaughter all about it. This was when she still deigned to be interested in squirrels, before she acquired her gerbils.

Very soon, she will be unloading the gerbils at my place before she disappears for half term. I have been promised, or threatened with, a set of instructions. Meanwhile, the bird traffic is already picking up. In the ivy below my bedroom window, two birds recently touched down that were bigger than sparrows but might not have been red-breasted enough to be robins. People are howling with scorn that I can’t identify the birds more precisely. These people are unaware that I once wouldn’t have cared about any small creature at all. Now I even care about Cyril.