In the sixties, the wonderful lights at Blackpool were laughingly called ‘Blackpool Hallucinations’, not by me of course, I was too young to hallucinate in the sixties.
It was almost my turn to be served, and the two kids ahead of me skipped away with their ice cream cones. No chocolate in theirs. But I was getting a 99; it had chocolate in it, which would be hard and icy cold from being covered in ice cream. I could hardly wait.
The old, Italian face (ice cream vans, of course, were always owned by Italians—if they were good ice cream vans that is) peered over the counter.
“Wadda ya want little girl?” he asked in his heavy Italian accent. As I looked up at him, I tried to speak, but couldn’t. I could feel something happening all around me; something was changing.
“A lime split and a 99 please”
Suddenly I felt like I had shrunk to the size of a pea. I didn’t feel real at all.