Laura Craik on spring rituals and celebrity parents

What with cheese prices rocketing and all this talk of a £50 billion divorce, these are not the cheeriest of times. ‘For the love of God, will someone do something to make me laugh,’ I wailed. As if by magic, an irredeemably bad bronze bust of Cristiano Ronaldo appeared. It was like Marion and Wheelbaby all over again: the more you looked, the funnier it became. Then the sun came out, and everything felt better.

Bereft of the ickle lambs, nesting rooks and flowering hedgerows that mark the passing of winter in the countryside (I googled those — WTF do I know about rooks), Londoners have developed their own visual signifiers. The ankles come out. The coats are ditched. Sunglasses no longer look over-zealous. It’s too early for off-shoulder, but short-sleeved is okay. After two consecutive days of ­­— let’s not kid ourselves — fairly pathetic, weak spells of sunshine, out come the sandals, hoary winter toenails hastily camouflaged by Essie’s closest approximation to Millennial Pink. And so it begins: the gradual strip-tease that crescendos in July with someone being arrested for sunbathing naked in east London.

Spring also ushers in the same food and drink debates. Is it asparagus season? Will strawberries ever cost less than £4.50 a punnet? Should you order a large glass of rosé, or stick with the Rioja? No, please bore me some more with your angst over implementing this seismic yet premature change; Spain’s GDP depends on it. Although my own seasonal dilemma is equally dreary: I just can’t ditch the knits. At a fancy lunch the other day, all the women were in gorgeous rose or daisy-printed chiffon while I sat sweating in my poloneck. Obviously, I went home and googled ‘cheap floral dresses’. Thanks to Gucci, Miu Miu, Balenciaga et al, pickings on the high street are rich. But is it too early for floral dresses? Nah. It’s never too early to wear, eat or drink something that cheers you up. Besides, spring is here. And if it isn’t, it soon will be.

IN THE FAMILY

I’ve always been obsessed with other people’s parents, so you can imagine my delight at finally clapping eyes on Phil Chung, so beautifully captured between daughter Alexa and the Duchess of Cambridge at the National Portrait Gallery (see this week’s party pages). It’s almost consolation for the fact that Jackie Adams recently set her Instagram account to private, thus depriving me of throwback photos of the Beckhams accompanied by captions such as ‘Cruz. The musical one in the family’ (gee thanks, mum). Alas, Sandra Beckham (a woman I’ve had the good fortune to meet and will forever adore) also has her account set to private. I don’t blame them. Not all fans are as harmless as me *adjusts motion-activated camera trained on Holland Park*.

GETTING WASTED

As I write, my local council is poised to switch to fortnightly rubbish collection for all non-recyclable waste. Primrose Hill has become Bin-Rows Hill as the streets fill with giant black wheelie bins. There are more bins than there are women in expensive leggings clutching flat whites and driving Audi Q5s. My bin hasn’t come yet. I was going to buy my own, until I realised they cost £49.99. Blimey: the savings derived from fortnightly rubbish collections must be heftier than I imagined. Despite being a big Sopranos fan, I don’t understand waste-onomics. I don’t understand those Veolia trucks mounted with TV screens; why would any brand want to advertise on the side of a bin lorry? And yet they do. Whether fortnightly or not, Veolia is cleaning up in this town.