Ice Cream

My mother stared in amazement. It was tea time. At her first call I had not appeared, at the second I had busily scuttled through the door with a neat paper bag in my hand. When she inspected the bag it contained three neatly wrapped bricks of ice cream. They had clearly come from the shop, and being correctly wrapped had obviously not been purloined. Tea was consumed in an atmosphere of some expectation, and in those days before refrigeration the ice-cream was swiftly eaten too.

Then I was taken firmly by the hand, led across the road and round the corner to the village shop. At barely three I was not old enough to cross the road on my own, and certainly was not entrusted with anything as radical as pocket money. The shop keeper was first given an apology, and then an explanation was demanded.  Genial as ever he related that I had toddled through the door and confidently asked “Please can I have some three ice-creams?”

So assertive was this precocious request that the shop keeper could only assume that I had been sent out in advance and that mother would shortly be along to pay. As it was I had politely concluded proceedings by saying “Thank you very much” and marching out the door, nonchalantly clutching the bag of ice cream.