The remembered summers of my childhood are full of the tinkle of the ice-cream van and slightly soggy cones of raspberry ripple. If I close my eyes, I can see myself running to catch the van wearing a Clothkits sundress. I can taste the cone: the tang of raspberry sauce undulating through the vanilla ice. You can never go back. The last time I had a scoop of Wall's raspberry ripple the magic had vanished. I didn't know if I had become more discerning or if the ice cream itself – weirdly yellow, with scant sign of fruit – had got worse. In any case, it was no longer a joy. But the words 'raspberry ripple' still conjure the happiest summers. |
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