99

I have many associations with food and summer, not all of them good. Where would Britain be without the hope of a barbecue? Summers in Britain are notoriously short-lived, if they appear at all so the chance of eating outdoors or having a picnic somewhere was a real treat, especially if grey cloud cover and a torrent of rain didn't spoil it completely. Although the elements would always be looking to thwart any plans for al fresco dining, sometimes there was the chance of burgers in buns, a hot dog made out of the finest butchers' sausages as opposed to wiener dogs and coleslaw and potato salad, possibly under a sunny sky but more than likely not.

And summer holidays bring the prospect of a change of scene. If you managed to make it away for a day trip, there was always the chance of a sandwich on the beach, especially dressed with added grit to make that experience a little less appetising and your teeth that little bit smaller. And maybe slightly more rough.

And I wouldn't be a true Brit unless I mentioned the cream tea: scone, sometimes plain, sometimes fruit (contains sultanas) with jam (strawberry or raspberry - the jury's out on which one is better) and cream, which should be clotted if having a true Devonshire cream tea but to be honest, cream in any form is generally yummy so I'm not too fussy on this one. All washed down with a pot of tea, usually black tea with milk and sugar to taste.

For the full British effect, this would be served on the finest china with maybe a decorative floral pattern and some gold edging. I don't think that the china the tea is served on and in adds anything to the taste; however, it does give it a certain prestige and sophistication which a chipped tea plate and a mug just doesn't achieve. Oh yes, and don't forget the wasps. The perfect tea companion in their snazzy yellow-and-black jackets and their constant unswerving attentiveness. Whilst a continued presence for most creatures is preferred, in the case of the wasp, it can sometimes be a little overbearing and they occasionally need to be put in their place with some crazy arm waving, some huffing and puffing and distance from the table as well as an exclamation of "Go away, wasp!" None of these things generally deter them but you can always resort to a swat (not S.W.A.T. as that would be a little extreme, even for wasps).

These food experiences all hold memories for me and are foods that are synonymous with summer in my mind to varying degrees.

But if I had to pinpoint it down to one thing, the food that most encapsulates what summer is all about is a 99.

I would imagine that these were originally called that for the price that they cost: 99p. However, time has moved on enormously as has inflation and so, rarely would you find one of these for such a small amount of money nowadays.

And what are they? Well, a 99 is simply put an ice-cream. But there is so much more to it than that.

Firstly, it has a cone made out of whatever that beige coloured stuff is that they mould into a cone and pass off as food. It tends to have a rice papery texture and is really only a means to hold the ice-cream rather than having nutritional value. Not like a solid waffle cone of the artisan ice-cream shop. Nevertheless, it gets eaten, right down to the last morsel, even if the ice-cream perched on the top is making it less a crispy cone and more a soggy, disintegrating mess.

As a kid, this was especially good if you were daring enough to bite off the end, just enough for the ice cream to be sucked through, like a vacuum, so that it came through like toothpaste. This was a riskier eating strategy, no doubt, but if it could be pulled off, there was a great deal of satisfaction to be won, over and above the experience of eating the ice-cream itself.

I admit it is a pedestrian choice, ice-cream as a food of summer, but as I didn't have one often, the 99 has been lifted in my consciousness to the idea of the ultimate treat, still to this day. And this is even with the various flavours of ice-cream that are on offer - I would still choose a 99 if available, 9 times out of 10.

The cone now dealt with, it is time to describe the ice-cream. Made from a machine, it would be what we would know as "Mr Whippy" or alternatively, "Mr Softee", both of which to my modern ear, sound a little suspect and more likely things that should be avoided rather than indulged in. It would be delivered in a swirl, ending in a peak, like a confectionery helter skelter in its spiral structure. Thick, white consistency and tasting vaguely of vanilla but probably more like solid milk whipped until pliable, helped by the copious amounts of chemicals with which it had been infused, it was a delight.

And I genuinely mean that. In fact, I had one only a couple of weeks ago and it was just as lovely as I remember and I wolfed it down, rice paper cone and all. Nostalgia may have helped to augment this culinary experience somewhat, I'll admit.

But there was more. Stuck into the mountain of snowy ice-cream was a Flake - a crumbly stick of Cadbury chocolate offcuts that had been moulded into a mini log-like form of rippled confectionery glory. If you were lucky, it would actually be a Cadbury-made Flake and not some cheap knock-off from the wholesalers. Only Cadbury would taste the best. I would always eat mine first as it interfered with the licking otherwise and you couldn't take your time with it as the ice-cream was impatient, dripping down the cone, increasing the likelihood of rice paper meltdown.

It just wasn't worth the risk. Losing an ice-cream is a travesty, a tragedy, the worst thing imaginable. Maybe this needs context. Let's describe the scene: you are a very young kid and you've been sent to get your own ice-cream even though you're nervous because your mum is fed up of your pestering and wants to relax on the beach, just for a little while. You feel like you've waited a long time for this moment to come and so you conquer your nerves and head to get a delicious treat. And she can see where you are going, to the ice-cream man, just a short distance away so you're safe and she can have five glorious minutes of peace. You bravely ask for the ice-cream and have it in your hot little hand but you're not sure what to do with the money as you don't want to drop that in the sand, watching it sink beneath the surface never to be seen again. But the ice-cream is difficult to hold and needs eating. Quickly. You adjust your hand to keep hold of the money but drop some and as you reach down to pick it up, the ice-cream in your other hand, somehow slips out of your grip and lands on the floor.

Such destitution has never been felt so keenly.

I had this experience and I can tell you, I felt so unhappy at losing that ice-cream. The loss. The shame. The unfairness of it.

Luckily, as I was little and quite possibly cute, I headed back to the ice-cream vendor who very kindly gave me another one for free, having seen what had happened and deciding, in a moment of magnanimity unparalleled since, to come to my rescue. If that man is not a saint of somewhere, then the world is a harsh place.

So, you can see from my bitter memories of the past, that ice-cream needs to be respected and given ALL of your attention once it is in your possession without diversion to avoid disaster.

One last thing needs to be mentioned and that is the delivery. I am obviously not referring to packaging here as that would be ridiculous and a little surreal, never mind, difficult to organise for a manageable price. No, I refer, of course, to the ice-cream van: squat, gaudily coloured vehicles, sometimes with badly drawn artwork, which were vans but not big delivery vans; these were smallish vehicles but large enough to house a refrigerator and a machine to make swirly ice-cream cones as well as having space for a person to manoeuvre themself about inside, to open and close the sliding window.

They also had to be able to drive themselves around neighbourhoods and announce their presence with a tinny tune that was emitted via a roof-mounted tannoy. The tune could be anything but it usually had to have an appeal for young children so it might be a nursery rhyme or a well-known tune like "Greensleeves" simplified and made twee. It was usual for the van to have blue exhaust fumes coming from its rear so that a dream-like haze surrounded the van before you reached the window. Getting through this cloud of burnt oil made the sweet reward of ice-cream all the more powerful.

They still do this. We have one where I live which regularly plays its tune and I have to resist heading out to buy myself something. It is a comforting sound to me, one that evokes happy days and sunshine and treats. All in the form of an ice-cream.

And that is it. A 99 in all its magnitude, described with love. A simple thing but one still greatly appreciated. I have seen variations on this where sprinkles have been added as well as sometimes chopped nuts. When I first had a 99 with my then boyfriend, now husband, the man in the van asked me if I wanted juice on it. I had no idea what he meant - my mind was boggled - until my husband advised that he was referring to syrup of various fruit flavours which I could have drizzled on my 99 if I so chose. I think I had strawberry. It made it look less pristine and sent my blood sugar to "rocket" setting.

Subsequently, I have stuck to the 99 in its simplest, unadorned form and will do when I have one again. I'm not sure when that will be but it is a beautiful day here today in England, a rarity but one I am happy to see and there is a very good chance that this evening, I will hear a tinkling tune, the notes of which will be sailing over the fence to where I am reading in the back garden. On hearing it, I might just take my coins and head down to the ice-cream van, part the blue haze, and have myself a 99 and relive and savour, once more, those memories of childhood and freedom and family that they always seem to evoke.

And their yummy taste too.