Ice-cream Blues

Over the past few days an ice-cream van has been patrolling our suburb.

At first my skin would crawl at the sound of the clown-coming-to-stab-you-in-your-sleep tinkly music, but yesterday my love of frozen dairy treats gave me a burst of courage, and I decided I would go and gather two cones, dipped in chocolate with crushed nuts and a flake.

Alas.  I was too late.  As I hurried out the front door in my best inside clothes and with a fist full of scavenged change, the van drove past.  Very slowly, and with the driver willfully ignoring my waving arms and plaintive cries.

I returned to the Fella crestfallen, and ice-creamless.  The neighbours offered me some of their ice-cream as I passed them on my walk of shame, but I was too distraught to even look at their smug, sticky faces.

Did you run after him? The Fella asked.

No.  I did not run.  An overweight chick chasing an ice-cream van is never a good look.  Never.

And besides, we had a freezer full of banana Paddle Pops.