open, readers, icecream

Today's poppy.

One of the silly things that come into my head: can mice read ? Last year and this year I have managed, despite the predations of pigeons who nibble the seedlings, to produce some garden peas. But in two successive years the seeds never got as far as sprouting. "Mice," said experienced gardeners, with finality.  So far, last year and this, no mice! But as I sow this year's third batch of peas, I think to myself: "Don't stick the empty packet at the end of the row, in case the mice spot it. There remains the question: how do mice find  a row of  seeds covered with soil and unsprouted, in a large garden if they don't read the packets at the end of the row?

One of the sounds, which I have come to associate with The Grove over the last 25 year, is the chimes of the ice cream van, mid-afternoon. It is accompanied by the patter of children's feet and their cries of anticipation and preference, as they run to queue at the window at the back of the van. As the engine, which presumably is kept running, to keep the refrigeration working, drones on, the chimes ring out again - Greensleeves, a song attributed to Henry V11l. Ice cream would have been far from the monarch's thoughts when he wrote it, if he wrote it. I think of Anne Boleyn, poor Anne Boleyn, but on the other hand, if you read, as I am currently reading Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel's gripping novel about Thomas Cromwell, you may feel less sorry for her cruel end, as she was apparently something of a bitch.