Ice Cream - You Scream

One of the nicest sights and sounds of life especially when you were a little kid were the familiar chimes of the ice-cream truck appearing in your neighbourhood on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Back in Atherton, that was the time when kids in our neighbourhood played rounders or tennis in the street while Mr. Manfredi's ice cream truck slowly navigated its way up Flapper Fold Lane to Car Bank Street.

I prefer that ice-cream be presented in a wafer-cone for the most pleasurable eating experience. This beats using a wax-coated paper cup and a flimsy plastic spoon. I always thought something got lost that way. Mr. Manfredi offered his delicious ice cream in three flavours – vanilla, strawberry and orange. It was the best in North-West England. You could buy a one-scoop cone for tuppence or two scoops for a three-penny bit.

His ice-cream was not produced commercially. It was made by hand in huge spotlessly-clean vats in his home. I'm sure that the special flavour and goodness of his ice-cream was the result of endless hours of his personal care and attention in the making process.

He loved his work. There was no comparison between the taste of Mr. Manfredi's ice-cream and the stuff you bought in the corner shop. His ice-cream was second to none.

It wasn't just his ice-cream. Mr. Manfredi himself was a large chubby Italian who loved kids and always greeted you with a great big smile. He used to sing to himself as he took our orders. He also said things like ...“One-a-great-a- big-a- strawberry cone for the beautiful señorita in the blue dress”. We all liked him a lot.

Whenever he came down our street the game of rounders came to an abrupt end. We had to run back to our respective homes for tuppence or a three-penny bit. We formed a queue at his window with money in hand. On one fateful day, I ordered my usual plain vanilla cone, single scoop. My mouth was watering in eager anticipation of devouring it.

The cone was handed to me loosely wrapped in a white paper serviette. I left the window to go to sit on the curb some fifty yards beyond the rear of the ice cream truck. God! It was good. My tongue was all over it lavishing its delightful taste. My friend Geoffrey came over to sit beside me with his cone. We didn't speak, we just ate.

I saw something move just as I was about to toss the final tip of the cone into my mouth. A big, fat, crawling earwig about a inch and a half long was angrily running around in circles trying to escape. It startled me! I dropped the tip of the cone and it's inhabitant to the ground and stamped the life out of it with my foot. I looked for the ice cream truck but it was too late. It was turning north and too far away to chase after.

The traumatic effect of that little surprise stayed with me for the rest of my life. I didn't exactly loose sleep over it but since then I have never been able to finish an ice cream cone without first looking into the very tip to see whether or not any creepy-crawlers are residing in there. That happened sixty years ago - and I still can't do it. Can you?