Ice and Fire

We are at that point of the summer where we can only be described as under regular attack. The massed hordes of Mr Whippy assemble in our area and attempt to ram raid every child and parent’s pocket for some cream-like, Soya-based, seaweed containing fluff that Whippy and his ilk purvey.

I quite like ice-cream but if I were to indulge as much as the doorstep availability would allow I would end up the size of Ibiza. Particularly since the closest the material sold has come to a cow is probably the corpulent mother in leggings buying a large one for herself and an ice pole for her equally distended but somehow deprived child.

The Ice Cream Wagons have been circling for some time now and I am awaiting the lynching of some poor diabetic with a Screwball.

And if I hear another rendition of a Disney film tune scored for crackly and annoying little bells then someone will die. I will ensure it.