Snowdrops and lust

If winter comes, as the poet says, can spring be far behind?

This time of year, amid the cold and damp and the skies that look like dusk all day, I love to see those first tiny signs of the cycle of life moving on again; the green fingertips of crocuses poking through the leaf litter, the tight buds on trees and the first snowdrops with their graceful downturned heads. If a human being hangs their head, they look melancholy, yet the droop of a snowdrop is the most cheering sight in the world.

Thinking of cheering sights, I am only human, and on being asked by a friend "Who is this bloke at the Royal Ballet you're always burbling about?" I was inspired to search (after saying plaintively "Not always..."); and I found this.

Now do you understand?

I know nothing about Mr Avis except that he's a damned fine ballet dancer - and, now, that (like most men in that profession) he looks pretty good in nowt but his kecks. So thanks for jibbing me; I like that picture, and I only found it because of you!