Not Cherry Blossom

There's just so much cherry blossom that I feel I can blip.
It's hard to ignore its showy pink loveliness, when the world around the Dower House has turned into a little Japan and the poem 'Loveliest of Trees, The Cherry Now is Hung with Bloom Along the Bough' on an irritating loop round and round my brain

And so ignoring my early blips of 'Fitness Chicks' lying on their backs on wet grass while cycling their legs as if on imaginary upside down bicycles ( not a very aspiring pose, I have to say), yet more cherry blossom, with red doors in the frame , and my second choice of an unkempt shaggy sheepdog tethered outside Peter's Yard while his owners topped up their caffeine intake, it's the white house tulips which win the day.

They have behaved beautifully despite having been brought home rather unceremoniously, cramped in a bicycle pannier and having to have rather a lot of stem to cut off to compensate for their time in unsuitable surroundings.

I'm hoping to have time today to play with my new geeky toy.
His Lordship is hoping that I am going to become another David Hockney and produce wondrous paintings on it without having any messy materials lying about the house.
I wouldn't dream of shattering his dream, but between you and me, it's not going to happen.