Spring is that off-the-shoulder number by Olyana Sergeenko, red roses in rack and rows; it’s the snow-drop daisies of Chanel’s newest line. It’s like Marimekko after months of prison drabs. In the gardens of Versailles, it’s carpet of anemone tucked between newly greening-up boxwood; it’s the sun-warmed play of a thousand fountains in a hundred little bouquets lined with fresh clusters of violets.