Aaaahh, the summer holidays.
Remember your youth, rising in the warmth of the sun, a quick breakfast and then off for the day.
Playing out in the woods, sticks for swords and lances. Catching sticklebacks, constructing dams, swimming in any old stretch of water deep enough.
Climbing trees, making swings out of rope and an old tyre (you were lucky) or possibly a piece of wood.
Hide and seek, tiggy off the ground, British bulldog.
Sheets and garden canes turned into tents and teepees.
Tennis courts marked out with string, french cricket, English cricket, orange boxes for stumps and the 'six and out' rule to stop the sloggers hitting the ball into the next door neighbour's garden.
Melting tar and creosoted fences, cut grass and summer flowers. Warm lemonade and skin salty from sweat and always, always, away in the distance the sound of the ice cream man.
You heard the chimes floating on the air, then waited expectant, to see whether they came closer, just like listening for the next peal of thunder from the darkening sky at the start of a storm.
And slowly, slowly the chimes grew louder as the ice cream man wended his way around the neighbourhood, until he was there, 'Oranges and Lemons' blaring from his tinny speakers as he drew up in your road. Then it was hotleg it into the house,
"Can I have an ice cream?"
"Can I?"
"Can I?"
Sixpences doled out, off you went, full tilt, who would get there first? What would you have? A cider lolly or a cone with raspberry sauce, to be eaten quickly before it melted in the warm sun and your even warmer hand.

Fast forward to the present day. Children slumped in front of the telly, ipod earphones in, Playstation console to hand.
In the street outside a lone van cruises silently up and down, the driver looking for some sign of life.
Eventually he spots a basketball hoop above a garage door.
A shiny bicycle lies discarded on the drive, along with knee pads, elbow pads and safety helmet.
A sand pit as empty as the desert, toys, untouched, scattered upon its surface like the remains of Ozymandias' statue.
It's a chance, a chance he has to take. He's already played one tune today, but that was nearly two hours ago. Surely he can risk a second blast now.
He checks his watch.
He checks the volume, making sure it does not exceed 80 decibels.
As the second finger ticks towards the 12, he prepares to switch on.
Go!
Count to four.
Off!
That's it.
He waits.
Inside the house a movement.
His heart stirs. Could this be it? Could this be his first customer of the day?
He waits two more minutes, no signs.
His last chance, one last short blast of his muted melody.
Should he do it?
Or should he move on?
Deep in his heart he knows the curt clarion call of his chastened chimes is not enough to penetrate the wall of noise surrounding the children inside this house, not enough to break through the barrier of electronic gadgetry with which they imprison themselves.
Resigned he turns back to his steering wheel preparing to move on, to keep searching until he finds someone with incredibly good hearing who wants to buy an ice cream.

Worcester City Council's licensing committee recently approved new rules limiting the playing of ice cream van chimes to four seconds, with a second burst allowed after three minutes. The chimes must not be louder than 80 decibels from 8 metres away. Once the ice cream man has used his two short stints he is not allowed to play the chimes again for two hours. Apparently this is an initiative to curb noise pollution.

No it isn't, it's an attempt to bring to an end another great British institution. I shouldn't be surprised to find that ice cream van drivers in Worcester have to be CRB checked, hold an advanced driving licence, have a clean food hygiene certificate, need insurance cover of up to £300billion to cover all eventualities including suicide bombing and have to have their hands, hair and shoes checked by someone from the council before they are allowed to drive their vans.