NOW that we’re getting a bit more evening light, I have been able to do a few things in the garden. I’ve been tackling a flower bed with bindweed in it and find getting the roots out is finally knocking it back.

I must admit, it is a bit of a never-ending battle. As I dig, I have been accompanied by a robin looking to take advantage of my digging to unearth some nosh, worms or small insects.

I think everyone must like a robin, it’s a colourful and feisty bird and its song is uplifting to hear.

One thing about robins is that they don’t have a red breast, despite the name. It’s orange, but the word orange didn’t appear in England till about 1400, when a new fruit arrived called… er… orange.

Oranges were imported initially in 1289 but were scarce and only for the hoi polloi till the 16th century. So, the robin’s orange breast was red, as that was the only word we had, but it seems right, somehow.

We often talk about robins as if they live for years but, sadly, they only average just over a year. I recall a robin at my grandmother’s that would come in the back door for a snack. It was either the oldest robin in England or, more likely, it was several birds, as my gran was sure it had been coming for years!

It’s thought the habit of a robin turning up when you start digging is a result of the birds following snuffling pigs and wild boar as they rooted in the forest.

But, for now, as the robin sits in a big bush outside my shed door, I can listen to the melodious song and be assured spring isn’t far away.