This makes a trip to Waitrose seem very boring ... but make sure you watch it to the end!

Another London weekend ...

Filching a big bunch of white lilac where it overhangs the railway line.

The scent of wisteria on a busy road.

(Actually, the scent of wisteria on lots of busy roads.)

A glass of sparkling rosé in a new-to-us wine bar

That has a little theatre upstairs.

A musical inspired by Russian silent-movies

Which was good. In parts.

(The tiny theatre was packed.

Which was just as well. As they were collecting money in a plastic bucket

For a new heating system.)

The glorious scent of lemon blossom as I had lunch at Petersham this afternoon,

where there were tulips on every table.

Surprising myself that I could name so many tulip varieties.

(I blame Jane Brocket.)

Keeping an eye open for Kristina and her cows in the meadows on the way home.

But she wasn't there.

Maybe it was milking time?

Oh to be in England, now that April's there ...

Because last weekend

I smelled the first lilac.

Picked cowslips in the garden.

Saw my neighbour venture out in a bikini.

(And even I managed to inflict a bit of sun damage to my nose.)

I picked branches of apple blossom on the beach

And watched busy people springcleaning their beach-huts.

And I laughed when I saw two seagulls - how shall I put this delicately? - making raucous love on another neighbour's chimney.

This is a big improvement on last year when they dive-bombed us as we scurried down the street. (They're so big and scary that I used to skulk past under my umbrella.)

And just as I was thinking what a shame it was that I couldn't take the week off ...

The sky went black and the wind whipped up and suddenly the rain was lashing down.

English weather.

I've been re-reading The Hare with Amber Eyes which is just as good second time round. But one of the things that frustrated me last time was that I wanted to see Edmund de Waal's collection of netsuke. (The paperback at least has a picture of the hare on the cover.)

Now I realise that there's a whole gallery of photos here.

The first time I saw Ai WeiWei's sunflower seeds at Tate Modern, I admit I didn't quite get it. It was a visit with far-flung family who hadn't been in London for years - and understandably there wasn't time to stop and contemplate.

I went back later, alone, as mauve twilight made it a completely different experience. And took time to watch the video of a gentle, engaging artist.

I was saddened this morning to read this.

My voice is a sunflower seed against the Chinese authorities.

Many years ago I visited China. It was barely a decade since the Cultural Revolution.

One evening another quiet, gentle man fulfilled his promise to meet a small group of us to talk about his experiences.

He asked us to be discreet as he was frightened.

I was privileged to be there and I have never forgotten.

The view from my sitting room window five minutes ago:

28 billowy blossom trees. (I've never counted them before.)

2 green parakeets.

And a blue-tit.

My family always tell me that they think I'm mad living in London.

(Maybe I should tell them about cowgirl Kristina.)

I'm still reading Earth and Heaven and artist Walter Cox is still at the Slade School of Art in the aftermath of World War I.

Sue Gee is such an accomplished writer that I can see his drawings, smell the seedy student lodgings in Camden, and feel as if I'm walking sooty London streets in the spring of 1920.

And thanks to YouTube I can listen to the soundtrack.

If I were Sue Gee, I'd be steaming mad about this truly dreadful cover illustration ...

Does that convey to you the world of Henry Tonks, Christopher Nevinson, Paul Nash, Philip Wilson Steer?

Yeah, thought it would ...

But I liked the woodcut illustrations inside (by Simon Brett, although I had to search the small print to find a credit).

Perhaps I posted this too early. Two days later, my interest in the characters is flagging and I've guessed the predictable ending. I'm still fascinated by the background of art between the wars but less so by the relationships which make this too much of a 'women's read' for me. Far preferred Sue Gee's later book The Mysteries of Glass. Or Francesca Kay's wonderful novel An Equal Stillness about a woman artist, written so convincingly that you'd almost start searching for her paintings in the Tate.