Oxenford Street, London, SE15

Spring is being gorgeously abundant this year. After patiently waiting for so very long, through so much seemingly endless rain and teeth-chattering cold, the enthusiasm with which spring has sprung forth is truly delicious.

Leaves and blossom have busted through every available outlet, grasses grow lush and flowers bloom in an explosion of colourful glory.

Even while the days can still be a bit chilly and grey, it’s all still out there, flourishing and available to be hugely enjoyed.

*A boomb: a newly emerging unit of measurement – check out the Urban Dictionary for a fully boombastic Definition of Boombastic

St. Mark's Churchyard, Oval, London, SE11

It started off with lovely little clumps of snow flurrying through the air, but it wasn’t long before each falling clump became wetter and wetter, and all too soon there was just a barrage of common raindrops. Sloppy streets and even sloppier patches of muddy earth rapidly evolved. There was a general vibe of sogginess in the air.

But as we know, every puddle is worth investigating; many a murky depth conceals some kind of hidden gem.

And so it was.

Three tiny grasses keeping their heads above water, whilst their sodden world ripples perfectly around them and the trees tower above.

A welcome distraction from the freezing dribbles sneaking into my sleeves and trickling down my neck.

Crawford Road (3), London, SE5

Wishing good festive cheer and joyful Amazingness to all.

Morna Road (11), London, SE5

I almost thought that some guerilla knitters had been busy during the night, when I discovered this woolly web adorning a yellow frosty automobile this morning.

(If you haven’t heard of guerilla knitting then I suggest checking out some of these pictures, as they’re guaranteed to make you smile)

But no, this webbing was made of cold, hard, icy particles – not soft, fluffy, warm wool. Forming along the lengths and breadths of this old spider’s web, the delicacy of the frost reveals the subtle strength of this web that has survived hours worth of high winds and lashing rain, as it accompanied the little yellow machine on its journeys along the motorway all the way to a holiday caravan in windy Wales and back again.

Spider silk is notoriously strong, but its not only this that makes it so brilliant at its job. It also has the exceptional ability to break only at the point where a force has been applied – say by a human finger or a marauding bear. The web becomes really elastic when yanked hard, but then only the one (or few) strands that are being directly pulled will break, freeing the rest of the web which happily bounces back into shape, and is still as strong as ever. This is excellent news for the spider-owner, as there will only be a little bit of web to repair, instead of a whole new, extremely energy-intensive web-building exercise to undertake.

I do hope all the spiders are managing to keep warm though, whilst the frost is out and about pimping up their webs.

Morna Road (10), London, SE5

There’s this really fantastic tree opposite my house. I’ve taken many photographs of it throughout the year, as it glows with sunshine and battles the wind and rain.

It’s a Silver Maple, so called because the underside of its leaves are a silvery-white colour…that is, before Autumn gets to them…

Morna Road (9), London, SE5

I woke up this morning to discover that my window had produced its own curtains in the cold of the night.

Luckily they’re the type made of vertical strips, so I could view the riotous delights of autumn colour, attached to the tree opposite, through the thin slits carved out by dribbling water droplets.

Crawford Road (2), London, SE5

The recent white, drizzly atmosphere is giving me a real sense of being engulfed in the murky midsts of autumn. There’s a certain peacefulness to the air, as if the blank skies soften the soundscape; a deeply refreshing freshness too, and exotically colourful leaves at every turn. Strange as it might seem, I even feel excited about the impending dark afternoons. Darkness possesses its own intriguing allures that can almost give those heavenly long summer nights a run for their money. Almost!

In addition, I am provided with a seamless backdrop against which to view such spectacular structural delights as this: the helical winding of a branch demonstrating a perfectly executed slalom.

But then I go and ask myself the eternal question: How does it do it? How does it know where to go, when to turn?

I am happy because my questions have led me to the discovery of an excellent new word: thigmotropism. It sounds like a word made up by somebody who had forgotten the real word, a bit like thingamajig, but no, thigmotropism has real meaning. Thigmo in Greek means ‘touch’; tropism, also derived from a Greek word, refers to the biological phenomenon which occurs when an organism – usually a plant – grows or turns in a particular direction in response to an environmental stimulus, such as light, heat or gravity.

Or, as in this case, touch.

So, plants can feel! To be more specific, certain parts of certain plants, in particular the tendrils sent out by climbers to scout the nearby area for supporting structures, are exceedingly sensitive to what they touch. Their cells have tiny external bumps called tactile blebs (another wonderful word discovery) which are squashed out of shape by contact with another surface. Depending on the amount and direction of the squashing, the cell will know whether it has found a suitable support. Literally, within 30 seconds of touching an appropriate fence, coiling will begin.

Plants coil by two of two methods. The first happens really quickly and gets the ball rolling, whilst the second is a slower, more permanent response, solidifying the swivel. As soon as it has been decided that the tendril is now in contact with a suitable structure, the cells on the contact side of the stem lose water. This results in the contact side becoming softer and more malleable, whilst the non-contact side remains firm. This simple response forces a curve around the newly discovered support.

The second method occurs after about 24 hours, as long as the tendril has continued to receive contact stimulation from its fence. What happens, thanks to a complex series of events including the deployment of the plant hormone auxin, is that the cells on the non-contact side of the tendril actually grow faster, and therefore elongate more rapidly than those on the contact side. Result: plant growth in a permanent twirl.

What a brilliant solution! Of course the underlying biochemistry of the cell, how it communicates, regulates and implements all the necessary information is incredibly complex, but the physical manifestation of this biochemistry is so beautifully simple – grow one side of the stem at a faster rate than its opposite side and it can’t help but curl. Brilliant!

Oh dear. Now I can feel another question bubbling up! How and why, after twirling so elegantly for so many turns, did our hero decide that it had wound itself around quite far enough and that now was a good time to spread wide its branching network of life?

Morna Road (8), London, SE5

This evening I was lucky enough to glance out of my kitchen window at precisely the right moment – just as the moon emerged for the night from behind this fuzzy cloudscape.

It literally only took seconds before it completely separated itself, moving onwards and upwards on its night time trajectory.

Getting to experience these moments when the moon or the sun enters or exits the horizon is always mind-bogglingly special.

It reminds me that the solid ground that I generally think exists under my feet is actually hurtling through space, as well as spinning around on itself, whilst being vitally yet invisibly connected to barely imaginable objects so many hundreds of thousands of miles away.

Really, it’s amazing!

Eastlake Road, London, SE5

In contrast to the tree branch that I found leisurely munching on an iron railing a couple of months ago, today I discovered this little plant on the losing end of a ravenous post box.

Perhaps such a hungry post box is a result of the steady decline in personal hand-written letters since the advent of email and text messaging?

Sure, junk mail is on the increase, but we all know that it’s hardly appetizing.

Greens on the other hand, they’re not only exceedingly tasty, but highly nutritious!

Harper Road, London, SE1

Wandering by this tree stump the other day, I was surprised to hear it singing softly to itself. I listened intently, and have jotted down what I remember of the words (sing along to a tune of your choice, or of the stump’s choice):

‘At first, I was afraid, I was petrified,
Kept thinking, I could never live without the rest of me,
They’d come and cut and chopped and lopped, with growling saws and big strong arms,
They thought I’d die; but they’d triggered me deep inside.

And now I’m back, from deep despair.
I’ve small shoots sprouting from my solid stump, I’ve leaves anew.
Was it my roots? Were they too strong? A threat to pavements everywhere?
If I had known for just one second, could I have grown them differently?

It took all the strength I had not to wilt away,
My limbs hacked off, left cold, bare, leafless, hungry and exposed,
No chlorophyll to make my food, my butchered soul was faltering,
I used to cry; but now I hold my leaves up high.

I didn’t know it, ’til I needed it,
I’d such reserves of strength lying dormant, hidden deep within,
A little voice, it whispered “Hey! Your epicormic buds are here,
We’ve been saving up our growing, now it’s time that you need us.

Grow on now, grow, push through your bark, just don’t give up now
‘Cause you’re not beaten anymore,
Here we are to help you, let’s reach up for the sky.”
Did they think I’d rot? Did they think I’d give up and die?

Oh, no, not I, I will survive,
I know I can regrow my leaves, photosynthesise again,
I’ve got lots more life to live, I’ve got oxygen to give,
I’ve got will to live, to hope, to love, I will survive!

Hey Hey.’