Things I have underestimated recently: how difficult it might be to implement a healthy eating regime when one is still in possession of a Christmas-sized box of Malteasers; how long it would take a control freak (where, for the avoidance of doubt, the control freak is me) to edit and order nine hundred thousand photos of an exquisitely perfect trip to Kew Gardens into some sort of ordered post; quite how much the place might be bursting with Spring. Like flowers on a petal, some separate but conjoined reasons why this post has taken so long to extract from the furrows of my mind and iPhoto, to employ a floral-agrarian simile. We went when Spring seemed like it’s own real season, rather than an extension midwinter (it’s April and I have started wearing a thick knitted wool snood again) and it was, to use a hackneyed expression that gives no indication of how breathtakingly lovely the gardens are at this time of year, a riot of colour. I hadn’t been to Kew for actual decades, and he (Ryan, featured, facing off a peacock amongst other less cobalt-hued things) had only got as far as the weirdest video involving The Smiths you’ve probably ever seen. Which meant that neither of us were really expecting any of the above, and were both floored by the whole experience. So while this blog is not one normally for stringent recommendations, I implore you all to go, while Kew is still bathed in glory before England’s one summer day comes. It’s enchanting.