The green men

You know spring must be on the way when Tatooine sends its strimmer crew to start whizzing off winter's lush coat. The signs are everywhere: the first shark attack of the season; a mass of tiny double-collared sunbirds, like shards of jade, trilling a liquid celebration in the wild cherry tree; the Namaqualand desert flower fields flourishing glorious swatches of colour; the whales on their way. Winter, as is its wont, is at present spitefully swishing its chill tail across the Peninsula as it makes a reluctant departure.

I do love my city at the change of seasons. Its never-failing effort to put on its glad rags shames the cloistered couch legume. What on earth was all that gloom about? I ask myself as I trot off to the beach, hoping to sight the first southern right behemoth breaching in the cove.