Easter. Grim, cold, and complicated by birthdays. Light finally good enough to see the dirt in the house and a garden where the weeds are going hell for leather and everything else is dying in the frost, refusing to show any signs of life or waiting to be planted. At work, it's the end-of-year project and target hysteria. At home, it's the time when you have to accept that this year isn't the one that's going to see you sorting out your life and making radical changes either. The ants wake up and the drains start smelling. The gales and hail rattle the loose tiles and flatten the early irises, and then the slugs trundle out to eat anything that's been left upright. Hurrah for easter. At least it'll be a year until the next one.
Edited to add: Moggy Malone? Computers? Poodle Princess? What has happened to Rhubarb and Custard?