Of course, I don't watch daytime television. But a Cary Grant film at 11am is a treat not to be missed.

So I kept my eye on the clock.

Unfortunately, I kept my eye on the clock that I'd forgotten to put forward on Saturday night.

Never mind. I'd seen that movie before.

I couldn't step over three rain-sodden camellias lying on the pavement. So I took them home and floated them in a bowl on my windowsill.

But why is it, that when other people do this it looks like a minimalist Japanese flower arrangment?

And when I do it, it's three soggy blossoms in a pie-dish?

I don't think I'll ever be wholeheartedly a fan of Ian McEwan so I had to run myself a bubble bath and sit in the tub to force myself to finish The Innocent for this month's bookgroup.

It's not what I'd call a subtle East-West spy thriller, as it says on the jacket. Far from it. Give me John le Carre any day, especially a Cold War John le Carre. And then if I get into the bath, it's to shut out the world because I can't put him down.

Mostly when I read Ian McEwan, I tell myself that I won't bother again. But my bookgroup is very keen on him.

They are sniffy about le Carre. They don't know what they're missing.

I was very careful with Ian in the bubbles. (I hope he liked the scent. It was Molton Brown's Warming Eucalyptus, nothing too girly.)

Because unfortunately Willa Cather's Archbishop was drenched in a bathroom tsunami not very long ago.

Christen Købke was the son of a master baker. He painted luminous skies and reddening sunsets.

But when he painted a street scene, you can peep through sparkling Danish windows to see geraniums in pots on the windowsill.

He didn't stray far from home and he painted people and places that he loved. (When he went to Italy, his paintings become much less interesting.) He painted his mother, who had 11 children. And he painted his friend, with whom he shared a studio. I'd like to think that had he born in this century, he'd have known how to upload pictures in the right order.

One of the portraits I loved best was done for the mother of a friend who was going abroad to study; she disapproved of her son smoking, and so Købke painted him chewing on a rose instead of his pipe. You can almost hear the two boys laughing at the joke of it and a mother laughing and crying at the same time.

As the National Gallery was closing, I stood for a moment looking at the rainy sky over Trafalgar Square. It was a Købke kind of evening.

Some bloggers blog about their lunches. A sliver of something organic from their local farmers' market. A handful of salad leaves from their allotment. Homemade sourdough bread.

But let's hear it for those other other bloggers who lunch on hot-cross buns and Divine white chocolate with strawberries.

We're shameless - but we're still hungry.

The girl two rows in front of me here was wearing a fox-print dress. How chic is that at a performance of The Cunning Little Vixen?

And I wondered if she had other outfits to match the rest of the opera repertoire?

The Little Vixen is a feisty minx and this is absolutely the right opera for spring.

What could be nicer on a sunny Sunday morning than a ride on the London Eye?

Followed by a quick Tube and bus ride to Columbia Road Market.

Where two big bunches of tulips and two shocking pink primulas in pots cost the enormous sum of £3. And the scent of hyacinths and narcissi and mimosa filled the air.

This left plenty to spare for a dainty rose-petal-sprinkled chocolate cupcake and a cup of builders' tea here.

Of course, had I kept my nerve, I could have bought even bigger and lovelier bunches of tulips just before the market packed up.

You have to time it just right. But isn't it nice to think that, all over London tonight, the girlfriend of the young man who bought the enormous bunch of mauve tulips, and the black lady who bought two huge bouquets of orange flowers, and the two young girls who chose blue irises and snow-white lisianthus, are all loving their flowers and thinking how nice it is that it's spring.