It is March. Still. Between Friday night and Monday night it rained continually (and I mean it just didn’t stop at all), and temperatures stayed alarmingly in single figures. But then, it is still March. What do we expect? After the storm, the sun came out, and so did the people. Were it September, and similarly sunny, and similarly warmish, people would be wearing coats and scarves, donning hats and brandishing gloves. Umbrellas would be held at the ready, and boots would replace sandals. We would be rushing headlong into Winter, missing our opportunity to embrace the autumnal in our appearances, and exhorting the season to grow-up like we do to children of the internet generation. Likewise, we skip Spring and jump two-footed into Summer. On Tuesday this week it was about 12 degrees (54 to those still on Imperial time), and yet I saw undergraduates ‘sun-bathing’ on the steps of their residences, wearing bikinis. I saw men in tight white trousers, wearing boat shoes sans socks. I’ve seen flip-flops, summer prints, too many pairs of shorts to mention, skirts up to too high, and tops down to too low. And then there are the ubiquitous men who insist on jogging in practically nothing (but perhaps that is not pertinent, since they do that all year round). What, I ask in all seriousness, is wrong with Spring? If trees went straight to fruit and skipped the blossom we would call those trees ridiculous. What should we say of people who do the same?