Let me set the scene… It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon and Chellington and I are sat on the couch watching Come Dine With Me. A woman is feeding eggs to her cat. I’m not sure why. (Do cat’s even like eggs?) The window’s open and then the familiar sound chimes in…
Ding ding-a-ling ding ding-a-ling ding…
“ICE CREAM VAAAAAAN!”
Like meerkats in an air raid we start running round, scrabbling together pound coins before I leg it out in my socks to buy our first ice creams of the year. And what belters!
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Now ice cream is a pesky fella. Within moments of it being put in front of you it starts getting all melty and annoying. So thank goodness someone invented an entire industry (worth £1.3billion pounds per year) that involves bringing ice cream to you.
Whether it’s at the beach, in the park or even in some shady dogging hotspot, you never know when an ice cream van might shimmy round the corner, singing to you like a demented accordion on wheels. I defy anyone not to smile as this cartoon box of happiness approaches, offering delicious frozen treats that, moments earlier, you didn’t even want! Then for the price of half a pint they can make you a child again, licking away with the gusto of an obese eleven year old.
And now it seems that my new house (we only moved in in Feb) is directly on the flight path of one of these glorious machines. Mega.
Summer, we welcome you with open arms… and strawberry sauce all down our front.
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