CHARLES Dickens didn't get much wrong - he was pretty sound on plot, dialogue, characterisation, social anthropology and facial topiary - but I think he made an error with Ebenezer Scrooge.

Never mind all that Christmas Eve nonsense; what old Eb should have been muttering was: "Spring? Bah! Humbug!"

I'm not fond of spring - or at any rate, the imposter that passes itself off as that benighted season in these parts. It's a cheater, a deceiver. Like an emailing Nigerian prince or an electioneering politician, it promises you great things, then signally fails to deliver.

The American writer and poet Henry van Dyke wrote: "The first day of spring is one thing, and the first spring day is another. The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month." I'm guessing he was not unacquainted with Scotland.

As I write, we are officially 10 days into spring, and we have put the clocks forward to give us an extra hour of so-called daylight in the evenings. And I am seriously thinking of lagging the pipes, both physically and figuratively.

I fell for it, once again. As we say about the Hibs, it's not the despair that kills you, it's the hope. We had crocuses in the garden a couple of weeks ago, and then a single, foolhardy daffodil appeared. We had three relatively mild days, and so I rejoiced at the passing of winter. I put my gloves back in the chest of drawers, shoved the winter coat to the back of the wardrobe, and got the bike out of the shed for the first time since November. The sap, so to speak, had risen.

The coat was back within two days, required for a trip to the blasted heath of Central Park, Cowdenbeath. The gloves returned at the same time as the bike - which itself made only a brief cameo appearance, owing to a flat back tyre. Coat and gloves were this morning once again teamed with their old chum, scarf.

Spring, the poets and philosophers will tell you, is a time for renewal. Not chez Allan. It's a time for lists. The hedge should be trimmed. The grass must be cut. The living room needs to be redecorated.

Damn this deceptive sunlight. The temperature was one degree Celsius overnight - colder than New Year - but you try telling that to the domestic overseer. I fear the central heating will be turned off shortly.

To be fair, the overseer trimmed the hedge herself. The grass will be mown as soon as a dry spell coincides with a day off, and B&Q will be receiving a visit shortly.

I might, though, wait until summer. Third Tuesday in July, isn't it?