I remembered it was April Fool's day halfway through the afternoon with a slight stab of wistful mournfulness. I was reading what looked like an ordinary marketing email from Thompson and Morgan, thought ace! and clicked through to post it to something (Tumblr probably, as what followed was an protracted interface with Tumblr's terrifying April Fools project) and realised, with a sort of inevitable sadness, that the picture was faked, the project impossibly ambitious, implausibly fabulous and probably structurally undesirable and that it was, of course (grits teeth) April Fool's Day.
Alas for my dreams of hard concrete softened by trailing pansies, of motorway bridges strung with Bacopa and Aubretia, of Erigon nodding from the walls of the underpass, of drunken bees heavy with pollen and diesel particulates buzzing in the verges around the concrete pillars of overpasses wreathed in Hydrangea Petiolaris, Passiflora and irrepressible streamers of Clematis Montana, dripping with flowers.
Not this year. Maybe the next.