I was gobsmacked to read about a woman who dialled 999 because she didn’t get enough sprinkles on her Mr Whippy.
I had my first ice-cream of the year after a Pompey game a couple of months ago.
Eating it while walking back to Fratton station in the April drizzle was a glorious experience, and I’m hoping for a hot summer with ample opportunities for more cooling cones.
I enjoyed it so much I wouldn’t have been responsible for my actions if someone had tried to come between me and my mint choc-chip.
But even I wouldn’t have resorted to calling the police if it hadn’t been up to standard.
It beggars belief that someone would even consider using the emergency number about something so frivolous.