I never had as much as a chocolate sprinkle from the ice-cream van growing up. 

I lived on the fourth-floor of my Balham flats; the moment I heard the strains of Greensleeves or ‘O Sole mio (which means raspberry ripple in Italian), I’d put on my Tufty Club slippers and leg it down four-flights of stairs.  I’d reach the bottom and hear Greensleeves dying in the distance as the van made its way down the High Street towards Clapham, a town where most people would do anything for an Oyster.

To get any form of lolly, tub or 99, you had to be as fast as Roger Bannister; I was more Minnie Bannister.   I would arrive to see hundreds and thousands of hundreds and thousands lying on the street.  Evidence I’d missed out yet again.

Having attained a semaphore badge with the Cubs, I could have sent a message to Mr Whippy. 

When learning semaphore we tended to learn phrases like: “I think the boat is sinking” not “one cornet, please”.  By the time I’d have gone down the many flights of stairs, it would have melted. 

Flake’s off, love