I can hardly believe that the blossom was still on the trees for more than 24 hours rather than spreading itself in a messy carpet before it had drawn breath.

It is virtually mandatory that the lovely colours are blown into oblivion by a bitter wind just as they reach their peak but this year it did not happen.

Even the columnar cherry at the bottom of my garden is still in full bloom. I realise it may not last even 'til these words are in print but at least we have enjoyed several days of beauty and enchantment. That's the good news.

The bad news is that we have probably just had summer, as the weather decides that one fine bank holiday, like the oft quoted one swallow, does not make summer last any longer.

However, let us not despair - I may have won a minor victory over the refuse collectors as my bin has been emptied two weeks running. There is, of course, this week to be dealt with and as there will be a change of day for the collection, I am by no means convinced that will not cause a stumbling block.

By the time you read this, I may well be tearing my hair out in despair once again.

The flip side of the fine weather was evident on Brighton's beaches where an enormous number of people of all ages, shapes and sizes, were apparently auditioning for a job as a sardine as they lay stretched out.

Lavishly basted in oil, with someone's big toe plunged into their ear and an elbow which did not belong to them gently caressing their melting ice cream, a fair percentage of southern counties residents were determined to enjoy (if that is not abasing the English language too much) the unexpected bonus of continental sunshine.

But as you might have foreseen, the gods had some tricks up their sleeves and the next day was near arctic and you could have fired a machine gun round the beach and not scored a single hit.

As usual, there were queues in the airports where the planes at least did appear to be flying off to foreign parts, even if running late, whereas the trains did not seem to have any idea of what they were supposed to be doing.

Who was the bright lad who decided digging up half the railways on a bank holiday weekend was a good idea, I wonder? On the roads there was the usual speed limit of some 30 mph in the fast lane, as overheating cars were stranded on the hard shoulder enabling cosy family picnics to be enjoyed as the breakdown men were eagerly awaited.

Around our way we enjoyed the dubious honour of tightly parked cars as the Albion clogged up every inch of roadside as their law-abiding supporters went to see their team wrestle with the possibility of relegation.

Non football-mad dads (if there exists such a creature) were on parade in the DIY stores and garden centres and my betting is that there were a good few aching backs being hauled in to work on Tuesday. All in all it was a pretty standard bank holiday, even if the weather did play some tricks.

For many folk Brighton was clearly the place to be. For just as many others it was not the place to be, and for some people it was the place where I want to be but I can't get there, to judge from the queues of cars on the main roads into the city.

In a couple of weeks' time it will all have to be faced again.

There won't be any blossom for the next holiday but the hotels and restaurants should get a good harvest if the weather is kind. I might even get my bin emptied again - who knows? And the football season will be over.