More bluebells, too much writing and a scooter

Fallen branches among the bluebells. Anon was always my favourite poet when as a child I was first introduced to poetry anthologies. So thank you Anonymous for your encouragement  a couple of days ago before I had time to upload my snaps. The thing is when I was a child there was a bluebell wood at the bottom of our garden Now only the garish Spanish bluebells invade our little garden. And I no longer take their English  cousins for granted.

"There's too much writing," writes the novelist Susan Hill in this week's Spectator. "The problem is that people feel they have to read it all. 'I've started a blog' is news to make the heart sink. I need my later years to read the best - novels, biographies, scholarship in a hundred subjects I want to learn about, poetry, letters,  wit."  I find myself agreeing even though I have been contributing to  surplus reading matter by way of this blog for several years, and even expecting others to engage with it. To say nothing of reading other blogs myself. But those I read I regard as the work of friends. I want to hear about their exploits and discover  their views as we used to in the days when we wrote letters to one another. Or sent postcards - another dying art.  Sometimes I think of Best of Now as a series of post cards to my friends, open to view by all comers.  And the more I dwell on the thought the more I like it.

In The Grove I hear a whizzing sound behind me. It is grown woman on a foot propelled scooter, the sort usuallydriven by children but clearly suitable for more mature folk. She banks to the left and turns sharply and at speed into Little Mount Sion, with athletic skill which fills me admiration.