Ode to the Ice Cream Van
‘Summer afternoons at school were a write-off. From the moment Luigi arrived in his van, parking on the opposite side of the road, any attempt to focus was hopeless. The jingle would carry through the classroom window like a dog-whistle, and I’d start salivating. When the school bell rang, it was tunnel vision. Mum would scarcely get a ‘hello’ at the gates as I sprinted over to the cartoon-covered van, it’s engine humming as if in anticipation.
The queue was where the real education happened. I’d empty the contents of my purse into my palm. Now came the complex calculations, as I figured out how to get the most out of my collection of coppers.
As the line snaked along the pavement, the excitement was palpable. When it was eventually my turn, there was Luigi, leaning out of the open window with his wide smile. His gold tooth, neck-chain, and white lab-coat all glistened in the sunshine. Now for the ordering. My style? Maximalism.
After a strenuous, demanding day of learning how to tell the time, a bog-standard 99 Flake just wasn’t going to cut it. And whilst others opted for Twisters, Fabs, or Calippos, I had grander plans. If budget allowed, my order — to my mother’s dismay — was a Popeye: a double cone of Mr Whippy, with not just one but two chocolate flakes, every available sauce, a generous sprinkle of hundreds-and-thousands, and — the pièce de résistance — an ice lolly stuck upside-down into the ice-cream. A masterpiece.
Ice-cream vans are for everyone.
My older sister, meanwhile, would opt for a Screwball: ice-cream served in a plastic cone with a piece of fluorescent blue bubble gum at the very bottom, which you had to dig down for— and that lost its flavour after around three chews.
Back then, the sensation of happiness and a sugar-high were pretty indistinguishable, but I can remember feeling what I can only describe as enlightenment as I walked away from that van, goods in hand.
When I was young, an ice-cream after school was just about the only thing I knew my Mum would never deny me. Reflecting on why this might have been, I concluded that it’s because ice-cream vans are so temporary. They appear for an all-too short period before vanishing again. So when you come across one, there’s a sense of obligation to take advantage.
Ice-cream vans are for everyone. They unite through a common language. And whilst adults may like to think their palates are more sophisticated, the desire for a Mr Whippy is one that we never grow out of. Maybe all that really changes as we get older is our ability to eat one without smothering it across our face?’