The light evenings are like a gift of time.
It isn’t curtains closed; oven chips tea, Coronation Street and then bed.
Everyone becomes a little bit more sociable when the weather’s good.
The people on our road who have ignored us for the last six months start giving it the big, ‘morning!’ like we’re old friends instead of the annoying neighbours who fill up the recycling box with large tins of baby milk powder.
There’s lots of, ‘isn’t she big now!’ (Nancy, not me, I think.)
Coming out of hibernation couldn’t have come any sooner.
Nancy was starting to go nuts hanging out in the flat on the rainy days. Her cupboard of Tupperware and napkins has definitely lost its appeal.
She looks mockingly at it when I suggest we empty and refill it now.
Her prolonged time indoors hasn’t all been wasted for her though.
She’s now sussed out how to open doors and turn the oven on. So I can’t take my eyes of her for a second anymore. So there’s that.
The only down side of the sunshine, (inner doom lord- shhh), is it's the time to peel off about four layers of clothing and reveal what’s been lurking underneath during the winter months.
I decided to take the bull by the horns and dive straight into a pair of denim shorts, which are, without question, too young for me.
And a bit too tight.
And a tad unfashionable.
But at two quid from the Marlets charity shop, I couldn’t afford not to.
Unfortunately, as is often the case, Nancy and I will leave the house and it turns out I’ve dressed her in virtually the same outfit, completely unintentionally of course.
I'm not a total weirdo.
I'm not sure how it happens. I rush to get us both fed, clean and dressed, and before I know it; we're half way into town, both denim clad.
Except she looks fun and playful in her get-up.
And I look like I’m off to the Radio One roadshow, circa 1992.
I'm relieved to see I'm not the only one, mind.
There’s a lot of mottled flesh on display on my street, wrapped in Genesis T-shirts and ripped jeans, washing cars and pulling crap out of blocked drains.
Everyone’s smiling or at least nodding though, which is nice.
As we were hanging out the washing the other day I remembered that this time last year, I had, in a sleep deprived fuzz, done one worse than dress Nancy and I as a Danny De Vito/ Arnie duo.
I had, entirely by accident, worn my neighbour's pants.
And it is as bad as it sounds.
I was bringing in the seventeenth load of washing, only to come back out later in the day and find half a dozen pairs of black pants which I’d missed, draped over a begonia bush.
I brought them in and thought no more of it.
Until a day or two later when I saw the neighbour upstairs leaning over the outside steps that divide our two spaces.
It then struck me.
I had brought everything in.
The pants weren’t mine. She had put them out to dry over her balcony and the wind must have caught them.
And I was, at that moment, wearing a pair.
I put everything through the wash again, and left the offending items on her step.
And she never mentioned anything.
So, when I think about it, Nancy and I going to the park wearing matching bretton stripes isn’t the end of the world.
Just as long as they’re both ours in the first place.