Gelati - the day I sold my mother

When my brother and I were children, we used to spend about three weeks every summer with our parents on the upper Italian coast. That was a long time ago...

We both adored gelati more than anything, and like all the children back then, we would always chase after the ice cream man when he arrived at the beach with his cart, calling out his wares. Of course, we secretly hoped that some ice cream might come our way!

One day, a young Italian was leaning against the side of the ice cream cart, watching the bustle of the campsite. He spoke to me, and I was taken aback. I was about seven years old at the time and a little wary of strange men.

"Is the young lady I’ve seen you with your older sister?"

What an idiot, I thought. He must know she’s my mum. Well, if he’s that daft, I’m not going to correct him.

"Yes."

"Would you like some ice cream?"

Well, of course! I was desperate for that wonderful Italian ice cream.

"Listen," the Italian said, "I’ll give you some ice cream—a big one!—if you come to the little square by the promenade with your sister, just the two of you. Can you do that?"

Of course not, but he didn’t need to know that. So I nodded and said:

"Sure, but I want the ice cream now. And one for my little brother too!" That was necessary - otherwise, my brother would have snitched on me. He was a bit of a tell-tale.

The Italian hesitated for a moment: "You’re sure?" I nodded (that way, I hadn’t actually lied, I thought). So my brother and I set off with our ice creams.

That evening, as usual, my parents and we children took our regular walk into town. When the paths split, I tugged at my mother’s sleeve:

"Couldn’t we take the other path for once? It’s always the same one - it’s so boring!"

"Well, why not?" my father said, and we turned onto the other path. Phew, saved!

So I sold out my mother for an ice cream. But from then on, I made sure to steer clear of that Italian ...