🎶The trees are alive with the sound of birdsong. With songs they have sung for a thousand years…🎶

Which absolutely does NOT fill my heart with anything other than DREAD for the imminent shedding of layers and baring of upper arms…

Spring is here. It must be coz my Facebook news feed is rammed with people’s pics of frogs getting laid in their back gardens.


The days now begin not in darkness, but with a burgeoning glare through the window, accompanied by ten thousand tits in the trees chirping their sexual availability and ten thousand wardrobe choices reminding me that none of them fit.

Yesterday I bought new jeans. I selected a pair to try on in the size I believed (hoped) myself to be – there is no need for actual numbers here. I also took in the next size up, just in case. The following eight minutes did not exactly fill me with the joys of spring. The bigger size was the best. I could bend in them. Also, I could breathe.

Only at the till did I discover they were, in fact, not just the next size up from the pair which currently held my voluptuous arse, and not just the next size up after that. My new jeans size is THREE times bigger than I had imagined.

The breathing is jolly nice though…

Spring is the traditional season of fornication. We are all awoken from our winter hibernation, stirred by the return of warmth and abundant fresh food. Lambs gallop, flowers bud and fake tan sales spike. Summer proper is in sight and with it the promise of public displays of flesh which need to be permanently over-exposed.

I should have been a frog. Women frogs are huge compared to the men. They loll about all year being squidgy and profoundly ugly, until the phase of the moon is just right and they all get mounted by the fellas, where their enormous girth is crucial to them not getting crushed in the act of procreation.


Frogs are what they call ‘seasonal breeders’; all the boinging is confined to spring. We humans must suffer the fate of being ‘continuous breeders’; all year we must be boing-ready.

Frogs make me feel a bit YAK actually, with their all-night pond-orgies and poker-faces. Instead I’d like to be a killer whale.

The female killer whale stops reproducing at around the age of forty but this doesn’t signal her death. While all the males die off at this point, the female killer whale can enjoy another forty years of life, free from the pressures of breeding.

They also enjoy a new status as leader of the pack, with the ‘granny’ whale calling all the shots. Her tribe don’t care about her age, her looks, her loss of childbearing capabilities. They need her age-related expertise. 

Especially when it comes to sex. Far from becoming washed-up (sorry) sexually speaking, the post-menopausal female killer whale is seen to engage in frequent sexual stimulation with the younger males. An aquatic Mrs Robinson, if you will.

Ah, we have much to learn from other species!

Plus, they don’t have social media flinging endless pics of bikini-ready bodies at them.

This spring, let us women not bemoan our ever-greater girth which becomes ever-harder to shift. Let us be at one with nature; be that flabby frog, that subaqueous sexual siren.

Or at the very least, buy a bigger pair of jeans and rediscover the joys of painting your toenails without passing out…

Spring forward!