Summer is perfect. With one exception: ice cream trucks. At the first tinkling note, the first chime of that jingle, my skin starts to crawl. Goosebumps break out. The hair on my neck stands on end.

There’s something disturbing and menacing about the combination of white cargo vans and that manic, demented music. It unleashes unwelcome thoughts of creepy, leering clowns and damp, dank basements. Is it me?

It is, isn’t it. I watch too much television, read too many novels. My imagination, while entertaining, is too active for my own good. There’s no ‘off’ switch; I need a damn ‘off’ switch, for crying out loud.

Come on, it’s a lovely summer afternoon, I don’t want these images in my head. So I try to think of swimming pools and birds on the wing, flowers and puppies, but that music. It keeps getting closer and louder until I can’t stand it any longer. So I run, fast, slam my money down, and shout ‘make it a double’.

I don’t say please, either. Just give the dude a withering fisheye and back away. Then, from a nice, safe distance, I lick my ice cream cone and pat down the goosebumps.

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