Langstone, Hampshire: A glistening raft of jelly is a promising sign of a frog resurgence after newts dominated for a decade

I register the arrival of spring through small, dependable signs in my garden: queen buff-tailed bumblebees wobbling through purple crocuses in search of nectar; the pungent scent of wild garlic; bluetits prospecting the nest box below my bedroom window; and the wren’s cascading song heralding the start of the breeding season.

Frogspawn used to be one of these markers, but not for many years. Then, 10 days ago, glancing more from habit than expectation, I saw it – a glistening raft moored against the water forget-me-nots . After such a long absence, it felt quietly momentous.

Langstone, Hampshire: A glistening raft of jelly is a promising sign of a frog resurgence after newts dominated for a decade

I register the arrival of spring through small, dependable signs in my garden: queen buff-tailed bumblebees wobbling through purple crocuses in search of nectar; the pungent scent of wild garlic; bluetits prospecting the nest box below my bedroom window; and the wren’s cascading song heralding the start of the breeding season.

Frogspawn used to be one of these markers, but not for many years. Then, 10 days ago, glancing more from habit than expectation, I saw it – a glistening raft moored against the water forget-me-nots . After such a long absence, it felt quietly momentous.

Langstone, Hampshire: A glistening raft of jelly is a promising sign of a frog resurgence after newts dominated for a decade

I register the arrival of spring through small, dependable signs in my garden: queen buff-tailed bumblebees wobbling through purple crocuses in search of nectar; the pungent scent of wild garlic; bluetits prospecting the nest box below my bedroom window; and the wren’s cascading song heralding the start of the breeding season.

Frogspawn used to be one of these markers, but not for many years. Then, 10 days ago, glancing more from habit than expectation, I saw it – a glistening raft moored against the water forget-me-nots . After such a long absence, it felt quietly momentous.

When I was growing up, she rarely dispensed advice. Instead, I watched her closely, holding on to her quiet wisdom

I often picture my mother that wild, hot summer we moved to the house of my childhood. She is 5ft 3in in the long grass, wearing a vest and a pair of small cut-off shorts. She is digging borders and battling the sticky bobs. She is telling me about the patch of tiger lilies and the cooking-apple tree; about the light speckling through the unkempt branches. “Glory be to God for dappled things,” she says.

My mother has always been a rare combination of poetry and practicality – I know few others given to quoting Gerard Manley Hopkins while simultaneously hacking down nettles, or tiling walls while listening to John Betjeman records. She has a remarkable gift for transforming the ordinary: a bedroom skirting board would be decorated with a mouse and a mouse hole; a packed lunch’s sandwiches cut at unexpected angles; the most mundane shopping trip often accommodated a detour to the art shop to admire the bottles of Winsor & Newton inks.

A pilot scheme offering some artists €300-plus a month for three years is being made permanent. But should something so fundamental be run like a lottery?

I won the lottery. Out of around 8,000 artists, my name was randomly chosen to be one of the 2,000 who the Irish government would pay a basic income. This pilot scheme was a test of whether a policy of supporting artists would pay off in terms of creative work, wellbeing and, calculated down to the cent, the money that society would make back.

For three years, we were paid €325 a week with no strings attached, other than filling out a survey. We could continue earning and applying for artist grants. I am a freelance writer who, like most artists, has always had to work outside my creative focus to afford to live, constantly worrying I will never be able to afford a home myself or to start a family. As such, the basic income was life-changing.

Caelainn Hogan is the author of Republic of Shame

A pilot scheme offering some artists €300-plus a month for three years is being made permanent. But should something so fundamental be run like a lottery?

I won the lottery. Out of around 8,000 artists, my name was randomly chosen to be one of the 2,000 who the Irish government would pay a basic income. This pilot scheme was a test of whether a policy of supporting artists would pay off in terms of creative work, wellbeing and, calculated down to the cent, the money that society would make back.

For three years, we were paid €325 a week with no strings attached, other than filling out a survey. We could continue earning and applying for artist grants. I am a freelance writer who, like most artists, has always had to work outside my creative focus to afford to live, constantly worrying I will never be able to afford a home myself or to start a family. As such, the basic income was life-changing.

Caelainn Hogan is the author of Republic of Shame

When I was growing up, she rarely dispensed advice. Instead, I watched her closely, holding on to her quiet wisdom

I often picture my mother that wild, hot summer we moved to the house of my childhood. She is 5ft 3in in the long grass, wearing a vest and a pair of small cut-off shorts. She is digging borders and battling the sticky bobs. She is telling me about the patch of tiger lilies and the cooking-apple tree; about the light speckling through the unkempt branches. “Glory be to God for dappled things,” she says.

My mother has always been a rare combination of poetry and practicality – I know few others given to quoting Gerard Manley Hopkins while simultaneously hacking down nettles, or tiling walls while listening to John Betjeman records. She has a remarkable gift for transforming the ordinary: a bedroom skirting board would be decorated with a mouse and a mouse hole; a packed lunch’s sandwiches cut at unexpected angles; the most mundane shopping trip often accommodated a detour to the art shop to admire the bottles of Winsor & Newton inks.

A pilot scheme offering some artists €300-plus a month for three years is being made permanent. But should something so fundamental be run like a lottery?

I won the lottery. Out of around 8,000 artists, my name was randomly chosen to be one of the 2,000 who the Irish government would pay a basic income. This pilot scheme was a test of whether a policy of supporting artists would pay off in terms of creative work, wellbeing and, calculated down to the cent, the money that society would make back.

For three years, we were paid €325 a week with no strings attached, other than filling out a survey. We could continue earning and applying for artist grants. I am a freelance writer who, like most artists, has always had to work outside my creative focus to afford to live, constantly worrying I will never be able to afford a home myself or to start a family. As such, the basic income was life-changing.

Caelainn Hogan is the author of Republic of Shame

When I was growing up, she rarely dispensed advice. Instead, I watched her closely, holding on to her quiet wisdom

I often picture my mother that wild, hot summer we moved to the house of my childhood. She is 5ft 3in in the long grass, wearing a vest and a pair of small cut-off shorts. She is digging borders and battling the sticky bobs. She is telling me about the patch of tiger lilies and the cooking-apple tree; about the light speckling through the unkempt branches. “Glory be to God for dappled things,” she says.

My mother has always been a rare combination of poetry and practicality – I know few others given to quoting Gerard Manley Hopkins while simultaneously hacking down nettles, or tiling walls while listening to John Betjeman records. She has a remarkable gift for transforming the ordinary: a bedroom skirting board would be decorated with a mouse and a mouse hole; a packed lunch’s sandwiches cut at unexpected angles; the most mundane shopping trip often accommodated a detour to the art shop to admire the bottles of Winsor & Newton inks.