Weather is a weird thing. April is notoriously changeable, of course, but still... We went to visit family in Germany over the recent holidays. Calling my parents ahead on Easter Monday, I was told: "We've had 24 hours of snowfall yesterday, there are 30 - 35 cm of snow on the ground. But I don't think you'll need to pack woollen hats and gloves. In any case I have some spare ones." Okay, but jumpers and our coats were a must.

Being someone who prefers to pack rather a bit too much than too little in order to be prepared for all eventualities, I pondered whether to take short-sleeved T-shirts? It was unlikely to stay frosty for long, but we were only at the start of April. In the end, I decided to bring one for each of us: we could always layer it underneath something warmer.

Arriving the next day, we had a snow fight though thawing had reduced the cover considerably. Then the day after, temperatures went up to 20 degrees Celsius - and stayed there for the rest of the holidays, rising even further to 25 degrees a few days later. Obviously, the jumpers and coats did not get so much as a side-way glance, but the T-shirts were washed regularly at night. It's the first time I've been so completely caught out, longing for some shorts, dresses or light-weight trousers and some open shoes. It drove home to me just how drastically the continental weather can change, how quickly it swings from winter to summer - and how much plants there have to cope with.

 Here in Britain you do have temperature swings, too, but rarely that abrupt. Mostly it hoovers around a mean temperature, deviating either side of course, but not in such a topsy-turvy way. Or so I thought. For while I write this, we've just had the hottest April Day in Britain in almost 70 years according to the news, reaching 29.1 degrees Celsius in inner London. And that after what was described to us as a chilly, wet and generally miserable Easter school break. Reports must be true because while I had worried for my plants in pots which dry out quickly when the sun is out and temperatures soar, left alone after a good soaking these were still moist enough at my return a week later to delay watering again and tend to the inevitable mountain of laundry first!

Four days on, it feels like the height of summer. The birds are going mad by the sound of it, butterflies seem to materialize out of blue air (I was going to say “thin air” but this deep forget-me-not blue sky cannot be called “thin” by any stretch of the imagination). Plants seem to explode. The dam is broken and a flood of green surges everywhere you cast your eye. All that energy, delayed and held back in bud, penned up so long out of chilly necessity by the unusually long wintery weather, has burst forth and you can almost literally watch them grow by the hour.  Where there was bare ground two days ago now is carpeted in green.

After daffodils, hyacinths and other spring flowers literally lasted for months, cherry blossom, magnolias and many tulips now have come and either already are gone or are in that blowsy state that indicates they'll be past it in a matter of days, if not hours, rather than weeks. The horse chestnut trees, a few days ago still mostly in that felt-like silver-beige of unfurling new shoots and only showing hints of green, are in full leaf cover, their candles fully-grown with the first flowers already open. It's incredible, surprising me anew every year no matter how many times I've witnessed it before. It could be late May.

I’ve often wondered: if it remained chilly until even later in the year – would plants still hold back? Or would there come a point where it was impossible to contain new growth in buds? Just as you can hold back from going to the toilet only for so long before you “burst”. Not the most appealing metaphor, of course, especially since, unlike any such accident, fresh young green is such a welcome, uplifting sight. But you get the point. And for the plant it might have more drastic consequences than “embarrassment”. Any return of frost could kill the new growth.

This happens, of course, much to any gardener’s chagrin in many a spring when a late frost destroys your hope of blossom or a good fruit crop or sees off your plants altogether if you were too optimistic and planted out too early. But these late frosts are “accidents”, so to speak. A plant tricked into growth by a previous period of favourable weather and conditions could not have “anticipated” this turn of events. And very rarely will these kill the entire plant. They might see off the first shoots or this year’s blossom but most perennial plants (including the woody ones) will eventually recover and continue to live. And annuals will only germinate once the soil temperature has risen to a certain level and stayed there for considerable time. No, if these late frosts really kill a plant, it’s usually your fault for planting out too early and/ or not protecting them.

But what if, like this year, it remained chilly throughout? And not just into late March and April but into June, say? Would trees and shrubs remain more or less bare until then? Would bulbs and perennials - safe those of early spring - hold back below ground? Or would their natural annual rhythm dictate that at some point, when it is perhaps past their normal flowering time already, they have to burst forth? While you could argue that such chilly “spring” would be like keeping plants in a fridge, the rise of the sun to a higher position in the sky and increased light levels would differ from fridge conditions, even if its warmth were not felt on the ground. Well - I guess this is a theoretical question, of no practical merit.

Do you know the feeling when you unexpectedly stumble upon something you have never heard of/ seen/ been to before - be it a new favourite book or a garden or whatever - and you suddenly are all bubbling with excitement about it, so glad you crossed paths? I felt that way recently on discovering the work of Mark Dion.

I came to the Whitechapel Gallery in East London having never even heard his name before. But the advert for its latest exhibition had made me curious: called "Theatre of the Natural World" a picture showed a tree stump with books about birds and plants stacked in the forks of a tree trunk and hacked back branches - as if on a shelf - plus a smorgasboard of tools and paraphernalia you'd associate with an explorer or Natural Historian scattered underneath. What was that supposed to be?

I'm so glad I went. From the moment I stepped in I was mesmerized, relishing the sense of humour so evident throughout. As  I see it, it's a sense of humour that will be shared by people who love the Monty Python movie "The Life of Brian": somewhat black, not taking yourself or your mission too seriously and needing a certain amount of insider knowledge to fully appreciate the gags. With "The Life of Brian" you'd need a rudimentary knowledge of the Bible's New Testament, here you should have a rudimentary idea of how Natural History - as a science - works: its general methods of research, how explorers went about gathering knowledge, and how it was shared etc..

I know others may see things differently, perhaps even contradict there is humour in this in the first place, choosing to interpret it as sarcasm or other sentiments. More on which later. But I felt that Mark Dion and this exhibition possess a great sense of humour above all else. 

On entering, you find yourself in a gallery hall the centre of which is taken up by a giant cage or aviary. In it, the aforementioned installation - plus a good number of living birds! It's called "The Library for the Birds of London", although the zebra finches which populate it are not birds that you'd find here in the wild. Then again, you would not want to subject wild birds, unused to life in an aviary, to this. In fact, you can't help but feel a little sorry for the birds despite the many feeders and water bowls.

However, there is a panel explaining how there well-being is safeguarded and staff are making sure only four people at a time are inside. For you can enter this curious aviary. I returned several times. The zebra finches seem as happy as Larry, quite unconcerned about their unusual habitat. Their happy chit-chat can't fail to lighten your mood and endear them to even the most hardened of souls.

Much better still is watching them go about their business - such as building nests. There are plenty of thick ropes with their fibres coming a bit loose. One bird spent about a quarter of an hour trying to rip a shred from the lining of an old cap or hat, another struggled heroically with a twig that really was too long and heavy for it, so - with one end in its beak - he hopped around in circles. While this description may seem almost cruel, it is no different to what birds would do in a natural environment: tugging at whatever is present to build and line their homes.

And they do succeed: there were plenty of nests the zebra finches had built (or started to build) already - and, bless them, with no concern of course for precious human knowledge! The most energetic nest-building while I watched took place in a gap between taller books on these "shelves". Right on top of "A field guide to the birds of Britain" and "Wildflowers of the British Isles", among other titles! It goes without saying that the birds aren't "toilet trained" either, so all these books are unlikely to ever be read again... As metaphors go, this must be one of the best telling you to not be stuck-up about your learning/ career achievements! Slightly sad perhaps, for we humans tend to crave "making a [hopefully positive] lasting impact" or "leaving a mark", but quite poignant. And with these cute, cheerful, unconcerned birds the blow to our ego is certainly softened.

In the same gallery hall, there are a number of other installations - most notably a trio (or quartet, if you include the fallen, broken one)  of hides for birdwatchers, or hunters' blinds. From the outside they looked just like the normal version: built from corrugated metal sheets or coarse wood, camouflaged with reeds perhaps, or only reached via a ladder.

However, one had been set up with a rustic table laid out for a hearty feast, with cured meats dangling from the ceiling like you might encounter in a rural inn in Spain. Another was equipped with chandelier, elegant sofa and a tray of liqueur bottles and glasses on a side table. And the third was furnished as a hideaway for a solitary soul, complete with shelves full of books, thermoflask and a comfy armchair. Wildlife watching has never seemed so tempting... Except, of course, you are not very likely to see any wildlife if you indulge in the offerings of these hides. And as hunters' blinds they allow for a well-observed typology of hunters.

The following rooms yielded artwork in a similar vein: created to look like the study of Natural Historian or scientist, for instance, you could e.g. examine books which looked like serious scientific works but were by Mark Dion, covering some of his previous artworks which veer between installation, drawings and perhaps performance (such as  when participating in field trips). A [replica] twisted horn of a narwhale, carefully labelled "horn of unicorn" (as indeed the myth had been) lay in a wooden crate; drawings of what seemed like the family tree of a particular species - except it was something totally absurd - hung on the walls, and much more which made me chuckle and grin.

I felt right at home, too: not only do I love Natural History and am always fascinated seeing work spaces of scientists from years gone by - Darwin, say, or other, less famous people. But my dad, himself a microbiologist, has a similar sense of humour and expressed it deftly: I grew up with pictures depicting famous buildings - which he had fashioned as a collage from photos of bacteria and viruses. Or a frame that showcased a jaw-shaped flint, painted in a colour reminiscent of faded bone, with the title of "Ursus beissfestus". Ursus, of course, is the Latin name for bears - the Brown bear being Ursus arctos. However, "beissfestus" is my dad's invention and would translate as "bite hardus" - apt for a "jaw" of stone... I couldn't help but think that Mark Dion and my dad would get on very well indeed.

Granted, there was a darker side, too: The series of drawings of dead trees made with tar, for instance. Or the series of photographs of stuffed polar bears in Natural History Museums across the world, begging the question 'Will these soon be the last remainders of their species?'.

The "study" was followed by the "Bureau of the Centre for the Study of Surrealism and its Legacy" which I would have loved to explore close-up but unfortunately you are only allowed to view through the windows. It's another Victorian-looking "study" full of scientific instruments, tools of the trade and collections of man-made and natural curiosities. I do not know enough about Surrealism in art to "get" the references but guess there are plenty that will elicit smiles from those more knowledgeable than me.

More accessible (in more than one sense) was the huge cabinet in the next room called Tate Thames Dig: A few years ago volunteers had been mudlarking along the banks of the river Thames for Dion and their numerous and varied finds were presented here like you might find in the research wings of museums - in drawers for geological specimens, say, or an entomological collection. Here, however, there was everything: plastic bottle caps, colour-sorted like a rainbow, in one drawer, broken clay pipes and older artefacts in another. Modern electronic garbage next to lost driving licences, toys or cutlery, large numbers of bones and oyster shells - all laid out and sorted as if it was the most precious, significant find.

Yes, it hints at something dark: how mankind pollutes the environment. How random things tell of so many lives lived in the past, random things only that remain of a person's life and tell of his or her existence when they are long gone. But - and here I return to my introductory comment - I refuse to see this as the key to the exhibition. You see, the art critic of TimeOut magazine commented that "suddenly the whole show makes sense."

He continues: "Dion is saying that you, as an individual, are destined to be forgotten. The only way you'll be remembered is through the detritus you leave behind [...]. Dion is showing us that we are nothing but the effect we have on the world. We are the pollution we cause, the rubbish we dump." His review is interesting and perhaps much deeper than mine. For instance, he describes the hunting blinds thus: "enormous structures for hiding yourself away and laying in wait for your prey. Each is filled with books, trophies and chairs or laid out for a dinner party. The prey here, metaphor fans, is knowledge itself. One of the blinds has fallen and collapsed. It's a futile pursuit."

However, I disagree with his overall sentiment or interpretation. For this critic, "US artist Mark Dion's whole career is a wunderkammer where wonder has been replaced with ecological misery. He's sort of like a little kid with a butterfly net who gave up catching bugs decades ago, and instead started catching ideas. [I love the latter comparison/ picture!] His retrospective show here is full of the symbols and signifiers of academic research [...] but instead of science, he's delving into ideas of human impact, of the nature of the quest for knowledge, of futility and frustration."

Maybe he is right. Maybe Dion really wants us to read and interpret his art this way. The introduction to the exhibition-accompanying book - not written by Dion -  speaks of "a journey that in turn carries a narrative": from the enchanting, lively birds in the aviary via the hunters' blinds "from which human predators can spy and kill" to "analysis" and finally the wunderkammer - or 'room of wonder' - which traditionally held  natural curiosities and awe-inspiring objects, both for study and reasons of prestige. Here though, we are "plunged into darkness and the company of 124 ghosts, pale green corpses of animals and instruments that glow in the dark [plaster casts or sculptures of real-looking and unreal objects which are lit by spotlights in a light neon-green]. We have travelled from the light and the energy of living birds to the luminous yet eerie trophies of obsolescence and extinction."

But I refuse to see it like this. For me the show is about absurdity, with warning undertones, yes, but most of all coupled with a strong sense of humour. About someone telling us, with a mischievous twinkle in the eye, not to take ourselves too seriously, especially not those "learned souls" of academic scientists. I prefer to see it as someone  poking fun at his own "caste" (for apparently Dion started out studying Natural History or similar) almost like a court jester who speaks truth to power in a roundabout way. And since it has wider implications, because those ornithology books in the aviary could just as well be law books or stock exchange reports or whatever, it is art for everyone - not just scientists.

However you choose to interpret it, catch this exhibition if you can - or look out for a Mark Dion show near you... This one is on at the Whitechapel Gallery until May 13th.

As a plant lover, I found what could be the perfect antidote or perhaps riposte to this somewhat depressing notion of "What remains of life after death?". In fact, it was only two weeks later that I hastened to Kew to finally catch an exhibition in the Shirley Sherwood gallery for botanical art before it closed in mid-March. The main room there had been given over to Rebecca Louise Law's installation Life in Death.

It was enchanting. There is no other word for it. 1000 garlands of dried flowers, each five metres long, were suspended from the ceiling, filling the entire room. Only a path, meandering through, was left so you could actually immerse yourself in this artwork (without risking damage) rather than just watching from the side lines. I'm not normally a fan of dried flowers. They always remind me of those dust-gathering bouquets so fashionable in the 70ties. This was something entirely different though.

Threaded or knotted onto fine copper wire were many different kinds of plant material. From posy-like bunches of grasses to poppy seed heads to roses or delphinium flowers, the colours and textures varied widely. Also, some garlands featured just one species and the individual flowers or bunches were widely spaced along the thread, giving it a very light and airy feel.  By contrast, others had a wild mix of petals, seed heads, flowers etc. tightly packed onto the wire so the whole garland looked almost columnar.

My very first impression was that of a heavy snow fall: you know, when there is little wind so the flakes float down vertically in total silence but they come so thick and fast you still can hardly see for more than a few steps. That's what it felt like at first, only with much more colour and at a more ambient temperature! Walking through, this installation revealed an ever-changing kaleidoscope of views - both looking across the room and, of course, in close-up.

It was absolutely stunning and the staff member positioned as a gallery guard confided he loved watching people's reaction to it. He also told me that many people had returned several times and reported always discovering something new. I bet they did. And I was slightly angry with myself for not having gone earlier so I, too, could return for a second or third time. Never mind. I did enjoy it then and there at length.

Life in Death indeed. Even whilst there I felt it was a brilliant answer to the question posed by Dion, namely "what remains of us after death". Aren't plant lovers lucky? Not only do we get to annually witness the endless cycle of rebirth after death - be it from new buds or seeds - we even get to see that death for the individual itself does not always mean the end or total annihilation. (Although, of course, humans tend no to preserve so well or beautifully...) A symbol of hope then, the perfect metaphor for the resurrection: Happy Easter!