NOT DREAMING OF A WHITE EASTER

As we peer out of the Burrow windows this Easter Sunday morning, snowflakes as large as gooseberries are fluttering down, and the grass outside is already covered with a white blanket. The Seasons are indeed a'changing.

This Easter Day [23rd March] is the earliest we shall experience in our lifetimes. The earliest day on which Easter can fall is 22nd March; the last time this occurred was in 1818, and the next will not be until 2285. The latest Easter date is 25th April, which some of us saw in 1943 and some [but not the Burrow denizens] will see in 2038.

Although the League of Nations in 1926 endorsed the keeping of Easter on the Sunday after the second Saturday in April, and this became British law when Parliament passed the Easter Act in 1928, the Act has never been brought into force because it requires the agreement of all the Christian churches, which is still not forthcoming. But then, when did the Christian churches all agree about anything? That would indeed be a miracle.

Be that as it may, we are now enjoying [?] a White Easter. And, as always, Easter marks a turning-point from the death of Winter and old age to the new life of Spring and youthful hope. This week, we have heard the sad news of the passing of Merkin's mother, and the glad news of the arrival of a new great-great nephew: Welcome, Oliver James Harper! Many years ago a dear cat, Pico [short for Piccolo, but he was so large we thought he should have been called Trombone!], died in our arms on Good Friday. So Easter memories accumulate.

By the end of this week Anticant - flying conditions permitting! - will be sitting on his favourite Italian lakeside terrace, with the prospect of ten even lazier days than usual ahead, plus scrumptious local food and lovely warm thermal baths. So the Burrow will be on vacation until mid-April. Meanwhile, we wish all our 'Snug Regulars' and others a Happy Easter, and - if you are hardy enough - good Spring gardening.

OUT-CANUTING CANUTE

We hear on today's broadcast news that our devoted Supreme Leader is in constant contact with the emergency services to ensure that everything possible is done to minimise storm and flood damage.

Why Gordibroon - or BroodyGord as he is known in the Burrow - imagines that his personal involvement will make a ha'porth of difference to the performance of our professional coastguards, lifeboatmen, fire services and police, except to distract them from more urgent tasks to take a superfluous phone call from No 10, we cannot imagine.

However, the government spin machine obviously sees a benefit in assuring the witless sheeples that their trusty shepherd is on watch day and night, hence his increasingly haggard and hunted look on Prime Minister's Question Time [which could aptly be re-named "Twenty Questions - No Answers".]

It seems that we have an even more mediocre megalomaniac premier than his self-obsessed predecessor. Whereas T Blair would doubtless have aspired to subdue the agitated waters with a lofty wave of the hand and an exhortation to "Be Still", Gordo rings everybody up and says "Here I am! Let me know if you have a problem."

The biggest problem would be if he actually set out to do anything more. The apparition of Broody turning up at the Burrow with a ladder to replace our drifting slates has got the Beadle worried. We are thinking of putting up a notice saying "Prime Ministers not welcome here", along the lines of those canny folk who used to carry cards saying "If I am admitted to hospital, I do not wish to be visited by Mrs Thatcher".

Armed with a large tray of pink gins, Dame Barbara is already at work on her latest blockbuster: Don't Leave it to Gordon".

JUST DESSERTS

Ben Trovato found this on the internet, and thinks it's one hell of a story!

George Bush has a heart attack and dies. He goes to hell where the Devil is waiting for him.

"Hi George", says the Devil. "Good to see you at last! We’re a bit crowded here at the moment, but you definitely have to stay, so I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I've got three people here who weren't quite as bad as you. I'll let one of them go, but you have to take their place. I'll even let YOU decide who leaves."

George thought that sounded pretty good, so he agreed.

The Devil opened the first room. In it was Ted Kennedy in a large pool of water. Kennedy kept resurfacing over and over and over, gasping for air. Such was his fate in hell.

"No!" George said. "I don't think so. I'm not a good swimmer and don't think I could do that all day long."

The Devil led him to the next room. In it was Tony Blair with a sledgehammer and a pile of rocks. All Blair did was swing that hammer, time after time after time, and more and more rocks appeared as he did so.

"No!" Bush said. "I've got this problem with my shoulder. I would be in constant agony if all I could do was break rocks all day!"

The Devil opened a third door. In it, George saw Bill Clinton lying naked on the floor with his arms staked over his head and his legs staked in spread eagle pose. Bent over him was Monica Lewinsky, doing what she does best. George Bush looked at this in disbelief for a while and finally said, "Yeah, I can handle this." The Devil smiled and said ... "Congratulations, Monica! You're free to go”.