The snails are out, dancing, singing.
It's cold and damp; rain alternately drifts and thrashes and the rats, birds and squirrels are huddled in their nests because they don't like it.
'Hooray!' beam the snails with Farage-like bonhomie. 'Out to play!'.
Horns erect, they barge across the concrete paving towards the tender Hosta plant, charging up the plastic pot and baulking at the gravel around its roots.
Others pose on the edges of clay plant-pots, arms would be akimbo if they had them, soaking up the humid breeze that caresses their juicy grey and yellow bodies.
Snail kittens hatch, their frail snail-shells gradually hardening in the cool air. They snuggle in gritty corners, under bricks and between the bristles of the yard-brush. Soon they will make their way to young and tender shoots to eat their first meal.
Can you hear them singing their clumsy snail song?
'Tra-la!', they honk in voices we can't hear, 'It's our world, it's our world it's OURS!!'.
I watch from the kitchen window.
Could they be right?