Picture the scene. It's Monday, late afternoon, and you've two hungry kids sat at the table waiting impatiently. You waltz in a la Luminere and present them with their dinner. Slight disappointment etched on their faces as they realise there's broccoli to be eaten but they crack on.
And then it starts. Feint at first, but getting closer. The Match of the Day theme usually. Eyes light up, knives and forks are flung aside, and they both scramble to the window to look at this god amongst men: The Ice
Cream Man. A chorus of "Please, please, please!" and "It's not fair!" fill the air. The eldest one sulks, the youngest downright refuses to return to the table. I am officially the meanest mum in the whole wide world ever.
Can I tell the Ice Cream man to not stop right outside our house? I can't afford it daily, I don't want them to have it daily, and I can't face a summer of this outburst at tea time every bleedin' day ...