I believe that spring has started to spring. But, if we're telling the truth here, spring actually sprung all winter - it never seemed too sure whether it was being autumn, winter or spring, really, did it? Apart from the odd day that was cold enough for hat and gloves.

Cold enough to kill the rats' as I like to say, now that pest control seems to be a thing of the past, and every Oxford garden is incomplete without its own healthy helping of fat little rodents feasting on our festering rubbish, as it waits the long wait before it sees a rubbish man heading its way - a rare thing these days.

And have you noticed that the less we see of the rubbish men, the more we see of the fat little rodents? I smell a - well, what can I say? Something fishy maybe? A bit close to the bone these days maybe? Especially in the run-up to the rare wheely-bin day, which seems to come around less often than the meter-reading man, these days.

Anyway, enough of all this. I was going to talk about television. I know this is out of character, and I'll probably be drummed out of the book club if they realise that I haven't quite managed to wade through yet another 500-page novel about the problems of growing up with at least one parent of non-British extraction, by some gorgeous, dusky doll, who's been to private school and Oxbridge and writes about all the injustices of not having the chances others have.

I was not going to talk about the ridiculous rubbish-collecting timetable which we all now need to follow, with the help of a degree in Timetabling and Timetable Interpretation. Miss your bin day at your peril.

I've gone off again. Before I kept interrupting myself, I was trying to talk about people who believe themselves to have been disadvantaged. What I wanted to say is, actually, far more serious than rubbish.

I don't know about you, but I have been struck sideways by a series of programmes on the television on Tuesday nights, that are all about Helen & Douglas House, the hospice in the grounds of the Cowley Road convent, where seriously sick children and young adults can come and have a break, with or without their family.

I have to admit, I approached the programmes with trepidation, as, like the rest of Britain, I am highly perturbed when it comes to disease, death and dying. But I was absolutely gripped. I don't think I can remember seeing such extraordinary television. And I am humbled, I tell you, humbled - I don't use the word lightly - by the goodness of Sister Frances Dominica, who started the whole thing off.

Now you may think that anyone with a name like Sister Frances Dominica has got to be good and saintly. Well, anyone who has ever had anything to do with the wimple can tell you that is not necessarily the truth, but I can tell you, I don't think there is anyone closer to a living saint than this woman.

She is a marvel. And don't think she's wafting about being saintly. That's exactly what is so saintly about her - she is so utterly oblivious to what an utter marvel she is.

I say this with some confidence, because I was lucky enough to attend a small reception last week, hosted by Sister Frances Dominica, to try and raise funds.

Helen & Douglas House do the things that we all ought to be doing in society - compassion for the sick or incapacitated, helping your neighbour and aiding the less able or needy - but most of us seem to have forgotten. We're all so busy with our petty hang-ups, that we forget some people really do have a tough time.

When this woman gets up to speak, everyone listens. Her goodness glows through her like a streetlamp in the dark. The rest of us might try and pretend we make a difference, but this woman really does. And she is so utterly human - you can see it, plain as day, she's got a sense of humour and a wonderful twinkle in her eye.

When she told the story of how she had begun the hospice, for children with incurable illness, 25 years ago, she told it like the rest of us might tell how we'd visited our mother, or taken the children to the swings. To her, looking after people who the rest of us try so hard to forget about - those we avoid eye contact with, move across the pavement to avoid - is the most natural thing in the world.

And so it now seems utterly natural to want to help her do it.

As I rush through my unhampered, able-bodied life, complaining about my demanding, grown-up, able-bodied children, or slightly-less-able Henry salivating over his students like some sort of ailing bloodhound, do I spare a thought for the parents who have to look after their sick children every minute of every day, all-through-the-night, seven-days-a-week, 365-days-a-year, without the chance of a rest or respite without the help of Sister Frances and her crew? Do you?

Well I hope we will from now on.

As she said, there are 40 children's hospices in England now. When she started there were none. And she still has to raise all but a spit of the £4m per year it takes to run the thing, from people like you and me.

I know that normally I'm a jolly sort of old thing, chin up, bosom out, let's roll up the sleeves and get on with it. But sometimes something makes you stop and think. Or should I say someone. In this case, Sister Frances Dominica, bless her.