Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo…

Today I let my inner child guide my adult body, resulting in me giggling like a little girl and running light-footed, following the musical chimes of the Mr Whippy Van. Tom and I had both declared our desires for ice cream but had pushed aside the urges for health and ‘saving-for-Paris’ sakes. We had glasses of water instead and focused on discussing whether or not you can buy jambon at la charcuterie. But in the midst of our French study came the sweet, sweet tunes of an ice cream van. Surely it wouldn’t come past the house? It couldn’t have chosen this street as a potential ice cream selling venue. It stopped right outside the house.

Mr Whippy

This is a book! Looks like a good read...

The van was somewhat oddly painted pink and covered in Hello Kitty stickers. Mr Whippy had clearly sold out to his niece or little sister. The ice cream was your average soft-serve and about four-times the price I ever remember from when I was a kid. That said, I was never allowed to buy ice cream from the Mr Whippy van so when the opportunity arose today and my parents weren’t around to say ‘No.’ I grabbed hold with both hands and bought myself a rocket – soft serve ice cream, dipped in chocolate WITH a flake. You can’t have soft serve ice cream without getting a flake and really that was the best bit. Soft serve is always disappointing (unless you buy it in Copenhagen where it is beyond delicious), the chocolate sauce wasn’t bad but hardly exciting, and the cone… well… It was fluorescent orange and Tom made the comment – “I wonder what these cones are made of exactly.” Enough said.

Yes, I felt sick afterwards and no, it wasn’t the greatest thing I have ever eaten, but the experience of happiness and joy in the form of ice cream arriving at your doorstop is worth $4 and a stomach ache. I just wish I had filmed the adventure so instead I am retelling the story to you and recording it for future generations. Yes, people from the year 2156, ice cream came in a van. Ahhh… good times.

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