Times (UK): Bending gingerly over a deep, green pond in the garden of his home in Richmond, southwest London, Sir David Attenborough and I are inspecting a great crested newt. “Triturus!’ he says, pointing. “Look. Looook . . . ‘ — the bosky voice creeps past gas mark 4 — “he is waaafting his hormones at her. And in a minute . . . ‘ The animal (unfortunately I had been looking at a reed) flicks in the water. “She’s off! Whuuuhnderful!’ It is the first proper day of spring, and after a short …