There is a really splendid specimen of Robinia pseudoacacia growing about twenty yards from my front door. It is planted at the base of the city walls, and towers above them. At the moment, it is festooned with masses of clusters of white flowers which give a thick, heady scent. It is a tree that you see planted all over Europe (it is an American native), and the scent on a warm evening always reminds me of holidays in warmer places.
I saw a statistic recently that suggested that Britons think about holidays every two minutes on average. Someone, somewhere, is not thinking about holidays anything like as much as I am at the moment.
separating the wanted from the unwanted