Weekends in London are becoming a nightmare of public transport challenges. Every week we’re notified of which tube lines will be closed or partially closed at the weekend. The list often seems cheekily long. The whole Victoria Line is often closed, the whole Circle Line, portions of the Jubilee Line, parts of the Northern Line, bits of the District Line, individual stations here and there, and a crucial stretch of the Piccadilly Line which means that you can’t reach Heathrow Airport by tube. They close bits of the Docklands Light Railway which mean that travellers can’t get to City Airport. And now the Northern Line is entering a phase where half of it will be entirely closed at weekends until the end of 2011.

In addition to the stoppages which are advertised, there are plenty which aren’t. Yesterday I had visitors who left my house to return to Cambridge. Knowing that the local tube line was out of action, they went to get an overground train to Waterloo. But there were no overground trains either, though there was no warning about this in the station foyer, and they didn’t discover it until after they’d validated their tickets. The only option was to go a long way round, with several tube changes, to King’s Cross.

Arriving there, they found that the middle part of the London-Cambridge journey was to be ‘replaced by a bus’. Slowly they made their way by train and bus, with a half-hour wait on a rural platform in the rain before the final bit of train journey. At Cambridge Station, there were no buses ‘because of a fire’, and they had to walk into town. And all this was on an ordinary weekend.

Suddenly there are signs of spring everywhere in the neighbourhood (and presumably further afield as well). I wish I knew whether these lovely blooms in our local park are camellias or rhododendrons, though at least I’ve got that far. ‘La Dame aux Rhododendrons’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?

Our cat remains a popular ‘search topic’ on this blog. So perhaps it’s time for an update.

About 18 months ago our 14-year-old cat collapsed and lay miserably for a few days on a drip in the corner of a cage at the local animal hospital. She was diagnosed with lymphoma and prescribed a year of chemotherapy. This meant her spending a day a week at the vet’s for treatment. Later it declined to a day per fortnight, and then to a day a month. It was stressful and time-consuming for all concerned, and wildly expensive, but the cat appeared reasonably well, so we were content.

At the end of the year she collapsed again. The vet told us we might have to say goodbye to her, and we discussed some options. We stopped all drug treatments and took her home to keep her comfortable.

The very next day she seemed a little better, and the day after that she was better still. In short, deprived of her treatment she quickly started to thrive. Six weeks later the vet was startled when I rang to ask for a check-up. We’re now six months further down the line, and the cat is sleek and glossy, racing about the garden and pestering us for food. What to make of it all? Did she have lymphoma? Was all her treatment a case of miaowing up the wrong tree?

Here I am on one of my favourite sofas in the Friends’ Room at the Royal Academy of Arts. Over the years, on this very sofa or the ones next to it, I’ve discussed all manner of things with friends from near and far. We’ve met here partly to look at paintings and partly to have coffee and talk. Something about the combination of art, architecture and sofas has made it easy to talk about things that matter. We’ve discussed children, partners and parents, we’ve analysed achievements and failures and revealed hopes for the future. We’ve talked about money worries, legal issues, health problems, and things to celebrate. When I look back on it, I realise that some important turning-points were reached over discussions in this room. Why are these different from any nice chat over a coffee in any pleasant place? I don’t know. But I like it here because there never seems to be any small talk.

‘If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?’

It’s funny how the first flowers of the year – crocuses, daffodils, aconites -seem especially vivid in colour. Are they really brighter than other flowers, or do they just strike us that way because our eyes have gradually adapted to the long drabness of winter? I found these gorgeous things in the park up the road.