Whimsy on a Wednesday Whipping You to Fall…

Ah, autumn. The season of cosy jumpers, pumpkin spice lattes, and piping hot pies. Everything is warm and comforting, like a big hug from the earth itself. But just as I was getting into the autumn groove, I heard it—the last jingle of the Mr. Whippy van. That familiar tune ringing out across the neighbourhood signalling the end of summer and all its soft, swirly delights. No more 99s with a flake. No more red sauce dripping down the side of a cone. And suddenly, I’m thrown back to a time when that sound was more than just a van—it was a source of pure, unfiltered childhood hope.

Now, nobody wants ice cream in October unless it’s sitting on top of a piping-hot apple crumble. (And even then, you’re pretending it’s a seasonal thing.) But hearing that van jingle fading into the distance? That’s when I realised: this is where I learnt to deal with violent disappointment.

The Art of Parental Permission: A Childhood Power Struggle

Picture it: you’re six years old, playing in the garden or watching TV, and suddenly you hear it. That familiar tune floats on the breeze, getting louder with every second. The Mr. Whippy van is near! But the joy is short-lived because now comes the real challenge: convincing your parents to cough up for an ice cream.

It’s not as simple as “Can I have a Mr. Whippy?” Oh no. First, you had to take stock of the situation. Like a detective you’d scan the room, tentatively looking at your mum or dad and trying to gauge the mood. Was this the week you were “too naughty” to warrant a treat? Or had you been well-behaved enough to win a cone with extra sauce?

Mum’s mood was always key. How many times had Dad taken her out that week? Was she still giving him the cold shoulder after that lingering glance he gave the babysitter? Was she saving for her next night out at the pub or the dress she had her eye on in Birdcage? It was a delicate balancing act.

The Agony of the Whippy Wait

The waiting was excruciating. Every second felt like an eternity. You’d be glued to the window, staring through the net curtains, watching the other kids already lining up at the van like eager little beavers. You could feel the pressure rising. Was the queue getting too short or too long? Would there be any strawberry sauce left by the time you got there? And still, no decision from the parent panel.

Then, if the gods smiled on you and you got the green light…oh, the chaos! “Hurry up!” you’d shout, as they casually responded, “Hold on, let me get my shoes on, kid.” Shoes?! Shoes?! The van was seconds away from leaving and they wanted to find shoes! It was enough to make you scream. The pressure was real, my friends. The anxiety was at a level no child should ever have to endure. Mr Whippy was our safe space.

The Crushing Weight of Nay

Of course, there were times when the answer was a firm no. And those were the darkest of days. “We’ve not enough money. Don’t be greedy. You had some sweets… three months ago.” The disappointment was crushing. It sat in your stomach like a bad goulash, heavy and painful. You’d slink back to whatever you were doing, trying to hide the sting by pressing your felt tip hard on the nasty little duckling you were colouring in. Deep down it hurt.

But do you know when it hurt more? When the disappointment truly left a scar?

The Ultimate Betrayal: A “Yes” That Comes Too Late

It wasn’t the “no” that did you in. Oh no. The true agony of disappointment came when they said yes, but as you bolted out of the house, heart racing, you saw the Whippy van driving off into the distance. The jingle getting fainter, the van getting smaller, and your hopes evaporating with every mile it drove away. You waved and waved like a manic jack-in-the-box to no avail. Whippy was onto his next patch and the shiny coins in the sweaty little mitts of better children were waiting. Of course, he wasn’t going to turn back for one scraggly girl with bunches and wet eyes. The bastard.

There is no disappointment like that. None. Watching your dreams, your sweet, delicious dreams, literally drive off into the sunset is a life lesson in itself. There you stand, breathless, hopeless, staring after the van like a scene from a tragic love story. But instead of a lover disappearing into the horizon, it’s a van filled with ice cream and missed opportunities.

The Lessons Learned

And that, my friends, is how I learnt to deal with disappointment. Not from exams or unfulfilled Christmas lists, but from Mr Whippy, the van that taught me the cruel truth about life: sometimes, even when the answer is yes, the prize is already gone.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to drown my sorrows in a pumpkin spice latte. 

However, in the meantime, if you’d like to view my take on spilt wine and floral memories, please click  here.