Here's a random thought of the day:
I would hate to be an ice cream man in Ireland. Somewhere in this country, there is boy with a dream: Someday, he wants to drive a colorful truck with a camper chock-full of treats, as whimsical music trails from speakers next to his windows and children scurry behind him. He wants to watch vanilla ooze run down the fingers of smiling kids while they lick a fast-melting mound of milk and sugar on the top of a crispy cone.
But this poor boy is born on an island nation along the west coast, where the weather rarely gets above 60 degrees in the summer -- and it rains most days. Let's face it, folks: this isn't ice cream-eatin' weather. If he follows his dream, he'll never make any money. He'll be happy, but he'll be poor.
Ireland is a really shit place to live if you want to be the ice cream man.
These thoughts cross my mind every time I see Mr. Whippy's truck parked on the bayfront Promenade in Salthill. We live on the Prom; I've only seen his brightly painted blue truck two or three times this year. Those were the token sunny days we've had. Is Mr. Whippy a happy man? Did he follow his dream? Does he wish he lived in Spain?
Someday, I'd love to meet him and ask him these questions. But it's always raining, so the ice cream man is rarely outside my apartment, doing what he does best.