Are you wondering where the birdies is?

It’s not the first call of the cuckoo that heralds spring these days. It’s the drone of distant lawnmowers. Now, I might have jumped the gun here but I admit I wheeled our mighty mower out of the garage on Sunday to tackle the lawn around Cobweb Castle.

I would like to say it’s one of those ride-on jobbies but, alas, it’s a common or garden motor mower.

Mrs Nurden wanted one of those electric hovering things but, being old school, I plumped for one with a roller so I could have lines like a cricket pitch.

This is fine if you have enough grass to begin with. Ours is currently a sea of mud and moss after I tackled the chore a little too enthusiastically.

The first battle came as I attempted to start the mower.

These machines have a mind of their own. When I put it to bed it was as snug as a bug in a rug. I had given it a clean, emptied the petrol tank, replaced the oil and covered it in an old blanket.

But once out in the open on the first sunny day of the year it went on strike and refused to start.

Imagine if all our cars were that stubborn: we wouldn’t get anywhere. Eventually, after many oaths, a long screwdriver, a giant can of WD40 and a strained back from yanking the starter string, it coughed into life and begrudgingly completed the task.

The lawn is now littered with little clumps, or “hosts” as Wordsworth called them, of daffodils about to burst into flower. This is another rite of spring.

It reminds me of that other great writer, Shakespeare, and his ode to the season.

I believe it goes something like this: “Spring has sprung, the grass is ris, I wonder where the birdies is?”

Yep, our Will certainly had a way with words.

Mrs Nurden is still gently fuming after discovering exactly what I did last year after she suggested I “plant some bulbs”.

I can never resist a challenge, so now we have a feast of colour in the surprising shape of a giant “N” in the back lawn.

“How could you?” she demanded.

Personally, I think a customdesigned field of daffodils is quite fetching.

I am not the only one who has done that. When ITV company TVS, which had studios in Maidstone, lost its franchise, unhappy executives left a secret message in the grass by the reception.

Every spring a bunch of daffodils would emerge and spell-out the former station’s initials for all to see.

There is one more rite of spring we all have to go through and that’s the return of British Summer Time.

‘Eventually, after many oaths, a long screwdriver, a giant can of WD40 and a strained back from yanking the starter string, it coughed into life’

That treat is coming up shortly when we gain an hour after the clock fairies have performed their magic.

Its sole advantage is that for one day of the year people like me will suddenly be on time for meetings, albeit with a slightly shell-shocked look in our eyes.