April is the cruellest month, T S Eliot said. This only goes to prove that poetry is all lies. For most of us, it's the month when the sun shines a watery smile; the evenings extend beyond the start of the 6 o'clock news and you can venture into the wilderness that was your garden once again. It is important to seize the moment. Self-indulgence in springtime means going back to your roots; starting off as you know you won't go on, but getting the smell of soil on your hands; digging and planting as generations of peasants did.
I am talking about a spot of light gardening. But only a spot; real gardening is for other people, and the object here is pleasure. So, first, ignore the dull, heavy stuff - the grass-cutting or major-league weeding. We are looking for instant gratification. Off, then, to the garden centre. Look for stuff that is already in bloom - little pots of red and yellow outdoor flowers, small bushes, tiny cherry blossoms. Once home, find a rustic-looking shirt and jeans. Make a large mug of tea. Then, if it's warm, take a chair outside for a rest. Half an hour later, humming some half-remembered hymn, take a trowel and start to dig - not too enthusiastically, just displace a little earth. Stick the flowers in, remembering first to remove the polystyrene boxes.
Fill a milk-bottle with water and dribble it round the edge. Stand back, wipe sweat from brow and take a swig of the tea, congratulating yourself on being in touch with nature. Have another rest. And - well, that's it, really. The flowers will die almost immediately, because you've stuck them in the wrong kind of mud, or facing east by a wall, or something. But for a few hours you can look out and say: I created that! There's nothing like a garden.
