Ice cream

I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!
Rah! Rah! Rah!
Tuesdays, Mondays, we all scream for sundaes,
Sis-boom-bah!
Boola-boola, sarsaparoolla,
If you got chocolate, we'll take vanoola!

The words of that old jazz song rang in my ears as I plunged a spoon into this glass yesterday in a newly opened ice cream parlour on an unexpected outing to Ipswich, thanks to the kindness of a neighbour who escorted me on the bus because I have not yet recovered sufficiently to go out on my own.

I had not had ice cream for a long time and it reminded me of my first ever Knickerbocker Glory, in my teenage years just after WW2, when Britain was on the cusp of a cultural revolution. It also reminded me that times are not dissimilar now in the wake of the Brexit vote, with almost exactly half the population celebrating "freedom" and the other half forecasting disaster for the nation.

But whateverr ... (in the words of a more recent generation) this was indeed a treat to be savoured and perhaps repeated, in spite of health warnings about obesity, because Britons never shall be slaves and will proudly continue to utter those timeless (or perhaps time-expired?)  expressions, Plus ça change and Gott im Himmel, nobody tells us what to do!

You think I'm joking? That's a question I often ask myself, but laughter is better than tears, and makes more friends than enemies.