I heard the joyful sound of Mr Whippy on Wednesday night, which can only mean two things.
One, that I squealed and ran to the window only to be left disappointed when he didn't come down my street.
And secondly, that summer is well and truly on its way. Childhood
summers meant being outside playing cricket or bullrush or bat-down with the neighbourhood kids after tea.
Suddenly, we'd hear Mr Whippy's Greensleeves and we'd drop the bats and ball and scatter, sprinting home where our parents would already be rummaging in pockets and down couches for coins (no Eftpos in those days).
Sure winter has its pros - rugby, coats and knee-high boots, cosy fires, red wine, electric blankets - but give me summer over winter any day. And not just because of the ice-cream. There's other reasons I love it:
