A Bittersweet Choc Dip

Today, I was transported not by a plane, or a book, but by a jingle.

That familiar, slightly tinny melody of the Mr Whippy van drifted through the air, and instantly I was a little girl again. I didn’t hesitate. I followed the sound, almost on instinct, drawn to it like I used to be when I was young. There it was: the white and pink van, parked just as proudly as ever, serving swirls of soft serve from its little window.

“Yes please, I’ll have a choc dip,” I said with a smile.

The excitement was real. My mouth started watering as the memories came flooding back, long summer afternoons, the stickiness of sunscreen and laughter clinging to our skin. As kids, the second we heard that jingle, me and my two sisters would drop whatever we were doing and bolt for the front footpath, barefoot and grinning, yelling out to Mum for change. There was something so pure about that ritual. The joy wasn’t just in the ice cream, it was in the moment, the togetherness, the thrill of being allowed a treat.

We’d stand there in the Queensland sun, watching the van slowly approach, its presence building the kind of excitement that only kids truly feel. And when it finally reached us? Pure bliss. I always ordered the same thing, choc dip. Every time. There was something about watching that smooth vanilla swirl disappear into the glossy liquid chocolate, then reappear seconds later with a perfect crackling shell. Heaven.

But today, when I took that first lick, I paused.

Wait… was that it? Didn’t I used to take a bigger bite? Wasn’t the chocolate thicker? Where was the magic? I gave it another go. Still nothing. Just cold, overly sweet ice cream and a thin layer of chocolate that cracked too soon. I felt disappointed, not just with the ice cream, but with myself for expecting more.

The truth settled quietly: either my taste buds had changed, or I really was just easier to please back then. Probably both.

I walked away with a bitter taste not so much from the cone, but from the realisation that sometimes, when you try to relive a memory exactly as it was, it just doesn’t fit anymore. The moment I longed to reclaim had passed. It was beautiful once, but now it lived in a different place, in my heart, not my mouth.

And maybe that’s okay.

Not every memory needs to be re-experienced to be appreciated. Some are best left where they belong, in the golden haze of childhood, untouched by adult expectations.

I’m learning not to chase every old memory, hoping it will feel the same. Some things lose their magic when you try to recreate them. But that doesn’t make the memory less special. In fact, it reminds me to make space for new ones.

Because today, even though the ice cream didn’t quite hit the mark, I got to smile at the wonder of who I used to be. I got to remember the sound of our bare feet on the footpath, the squeals of laughter, the chocolate-covered grins, and the way something so simple could make us so happy.

And that? That’s the real sweetness.

Christine Bunn

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