It's 3 o'clock precisely!
And how pray tell do I know -
because the ice-cream van known affectionately
as "Mr Whippey" has just disappeared up the turning opposite
on two wheels as if he had the hounds of hell at his heels.
This would appear to be some sort of a daily ritual
almost invariably accompanied by a very tinny version
of The Yellow Rose of Texas played at full blast
I should also add that today it's freezing cold and
there's a strong "Norfolk" wind blowing, so called because
it can't be arsed to go around you and so goes straight
through you chilling the bones on its way.
Why have I started singing "I'm dreaming of a white Easter"?
Back to Mr Whippey - as no one in their right minds
would really fancy an 3pm ice cream cone on a daily
basis what is the blaggard up to?
Could this be a novel, and I might add rather sinister, new
method of drug running? Are there hoards of ice-cream
addicts living over the road? Or does he have a secret
bit off stuff tucked away in one of the bungalows who
Fear not - I'm on the case and will be watching