The Story of the How My Grandmother Found My Grandfather

When my grandmother lost her husband in the war, she was already a strong and capable woman & did not feel she needed to marry again. But, her friends worried about her and were constantly pestering her about getting remarried.
'Think, Sveta, think how lonely you will get!' They cried in unison.
'How can I get lonely when you are all constantly at my side?' Replied my grandmother with a grin, 'Seems the best way to get company is to remain unmarried!'
'But we will not always be here!' cried one.
'We have families of our own, husbands to cook for, children to care for!' added another.
'We cannot always be with you,' clarified one with a 'harrumph'.
But my grandmother merely smiled to herself, shrugged her shoulders and began to hum a merry tuse as she carried the tea things away.
Many months later, her friends were still seated at her table, drinking her tea and moaning about how lonely she would evenutally become.
'Let us find you a husband,' begged one.
'We know just what you like! added another.
'Fine!' cried my grandmother, impatiently, 'If it will make you leave my house and return our conversations to something other than men, then, yes! You may find me a husband! Please, do so at once!' And she shooed them out the door.
My grandmother wasn't worried. As she cleared the many plates and tea things, she hummed the merry tunr again, thinking that she would refuse every man her friends found, and they would soon tire of the game. She would have her home back AND her freedom.
Sure enough, when her friends cam back with eligible bachelors, who they were at pains to tell my grandmother, were perfectly suited to her, my grandmother found faults with them all.
'The one is a lawyer!' cried one friend, 'He is skilled in the art of debate, and will keep your keen mind interested for many years!'
'Too hard-working!' said my grandmother, with a wave of her hand, 'I should never see him out of the office!'
'This one is an artist!' cried another friend, 'He will decorate your home with beautiful paintings and you will forever be surrounded by the most delicate, intriguing and astounding objects!'
'Too idealistic!' pooh-poohed my grandmother, 'How could I shake him out of his dreams to get him to cut the firewood or feed the pigs?'
'This one is an athlete!' cried yet another friend, 'He will be able to help with all the tasks around the house that are too difficult for you and your children will be fit & healthy!'
'Too handsome!' criticised my grandmother, 'T would need to wear make-up to bed and always have my hair in curlers to feel I could be seen by my own husband! No, no!' she said, as her friends began to protest, 'You must keep looking - off you go!' And she threw them out again.
This continued for many months and the suitable bachelors began to descrease in number, until one afternoon tea-time, the women had no men to suggest at all.
'What is this?' laughed my grandmother, 'Have you given up? Am I that difficult to find a husband for? I must change my name to 'Shrew'!' She joked happily.
Then the oldest of the group of friends (who also considered herself the wisest) fixed my grandmother with a steady look.
'Well, Sveta, there is one other. But...well, no. I had best not continue.'
This intrigued my grandmother, 'Why should you not continue?' she demanded.
'Well, we know very little about him,' replied the woman, 'He does not even seem to have a name. The people who know him refer to him as 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best.' But you are not for him.'
This annoyed my grandmother, 'Why is he not for me?' Am I not a fine woman? Accomplished, intelligent, capable? Still attractive? Why would this man not consent to be my husband?'
'Sveta, dear, he loves his country best. He does not seek, or want, a wife.'
'Well, I do not seek or want a husband!' snapped my grandmotehr, 'And yet, I have sat here, day after day, listening to your descriptions of these men, seeing their photographs, humouring you! Why should this man not at least agree to meet me? I love my country also!'
'He lives far away, Sveta,' replied her friend, 'Beyond the mountains, over the great river and the plains in a town that few know the location of. He will be almost impossible to find.'
'Impossible!' Scoffed my grandmother, 'I will show you! I will find this man, I will meet him, I will determine why HE is not for ME and then we will be able to put this whole nonsense about a second husband behind us. Agreed?'
And she and her friend shook hands amongst the excited twittering of the other women.
My grandmother packed her bags that very night and set out the next morning. Outside her house, she met a farmer, with his donkey.
'Farmer!' she cried, as he hurried past, 'Do you know the way to the village where lives the man who is called 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best'?' The farmer stopped and put his hand to his chin.
'Hmm....' he said, 'I know this village. But it is far away, over the mountain pass. But, your weak legs will not take you so far, you must allow me to accompany you. You may sit on my donkey's back.' And he moved to put his hands arond her waist and move her on to the donkey's back.
But my grandmother was a proud woman, and would not take the donkey.
'My legs are stronger than they look,' she said with a sniff and moving away from the farmer, 'They will carry me over the mountain pass.'
The farmer was right, the mountain pass was most treacherous, full of terrifying animals, crumbling paths and thick woods. But my grandmother would not give up. Many weeks later, she stumbled out at the bottom of the mountains, covered in scratches in dirt, to find herself on the shores of a deep, wide lake. The water was black & the the opposite shore was hard to see. But the water, a fisherman was drawikng in his nets and my grandmother called to him.
'Fisherman! Do you know the way to the village where lives the man who is called, 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best'?'
The fisherman stopped pulling in his nets and put his hands on his hips. 'Hmm...' he said, 'It is on the other side of this lake, but the water is icy cold & it is too far to walk around. Let me take you in my boat.'
But my grandmother shook her head stubbornly. 'I had climbed the mountain pass alone and I will get across the lake on, my own, or not at all.' So, she tied some planks of wood togehter with rope, piled her belongings on top and began to paddle to the further shore.
It took her a night and a day, until her arms had nearly dropped off, but my grandmother merely gritted her teeth and thought, 'Well at least I shall be clean when I arrive,' as she watched the mountain dirt, swirl off her arms and legs and into the lake.
On the other side of the lake, my grandmother fell onto the rocky shore and lay with her eyes closed for many hours. Finally, a travelling merchant saw her stretched out and came to make sure she was alright.
'Merchant,' my grandmother gasped, 'Do you know the way to the village where lives the man who is called, 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best'?' The salesman touched his brow delicately with his handkerchief and replied, 'Hmm. It is far from here over the desert. It is much too treacherous for a lone woman to travel on her own. Here, my dear, let me help you up, and you may travel with me in my covered caravan so your pretty skin will not be damaged by the harsh sun.'
But, my grandmother batted his hand away with an impatient 'harrumph'.
'I have scaled the mountains on my own, rowed myself across the river on my own raft. I do not need the assistance of anyone, least of all you, sir.'
And she picked herself up, tied a shawl over her head to protect her face & eyes, filled her bottle with icy cold water headed out into the desert.
This was the hardest part of the journey, and my grandmother almost gave up many times. She encountered snakes and poisonous lizards, her water ran out and she began to fear she would never find her way out.
Weeks passed and my grandmother learnt to find water in the cactus, edible grasses that did not hurt the stomach, and how best to keep warm in the cold desert night.
She came to love the varying yellows of the sand, the pinks, roses and reds of the dying sun and the clean white pin-pricks of the starry nights.
When she finally found her way out and walked across the wide, grassy plain to the village where, 'He-Who-Loved-His-Country-Best' lived, she was almost disappointed. In the village, she stopped an old lafy bent over, carrying firewood.
'Sister, can I help you?' asked my grandmother and took the woman's sticks from her. She then asked the location of the home of 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best.'
'He lives on the edge of the village,' the Old Lady said, 'Just past my house.'
'I will walk with you, then,' said my grandmother. When they got to the house of 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best,' the Old Woman told my grandmother to wait and she would speak to the man first on my grandmother's behalf.
'What is it that you have come for?' asked the Old Woman.
'I have come to decide whether or not I would like to marry him,' replied my grandmother. The Old Woman's face darkened and she shook her head. 'Oh, I do hope you have not come far,' she tutted. 'I am certain he will not see you,' she said and shuffled into the house.
After only a few minutes, in which my grandmother attempted to order her hair and readjust her clothes, to make them a little presentable, the Old Woman returned, shaking her head.
'He will not see you. He asks you to please go away.'
This irritated my grandmother. 'Sister, I do not wish to be rude,' she said, through gritted teeth, 'But this man does not know what I have been through to arrive here. He will see me. At the very least, he will see me and if he then does not wish to know anything more about me, I will leave at once.' And with that she stormed past the Old woman and into the home of 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best.'
When my grandfather first laid eyes on my grandmother, he saw a brown-faced, crazy haired woman, standing with a fire in her eyes and a scowl on her lips. 'Excuse me,' my grandfather attempted to say, but my grandmother cut in.
'No, I will not. I have travelled through the mountains on foot, paddled over the lake, and survived the desert alone, I have learnt which berries are the sweetest and the calls of the wild cats. I can follow the birds to their water holes and recognise the coming of a storm. I have travelled for months to be here. And you do not get to dismiss me without even taking one look at me. Now,' said my grandmother, with a flick of her head, and shoving her hands on her hips, 'What have you got to say for yourself?'
My grandfather could not speak. He stared and stared at her, at her wild appearance, definat glance and angry eyes.
'You're a crazy woman,' he said at last.
My grandmother threw her head back defiantly. 'That may be so. But I have seen more of this country than you, oh, 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best.' I have achieved things you have only dreamed about. If you do not wish to marry me, that is no skin off my nose, bust let me assure you, that you have suffered a great loss.' And with that, she turned on her heel and returned over the desert, the lake & the mountains.
This might have been the end of the whole affair, had my grandmother's words not shook my grandfather to the core. He could not get the crazy woman or her fiery words out of his head. A few months later he set out himself over the desert, the lake & the mountains, asking for, 'She-Who-Travels-Alone.'
When he finally arrived on her doorstep, my grandmother was again surrounded by twittering women, drinking tea and moaning about my grandmother's single state. When my grandfather walked into the room, there was a general hush. The woman started at him and at each other and my grandmother. My grandmother pursed her lips and whispered to the woman next to her. This was the same older woman who had first spoke of 'He-Who-Loves-His-Country-Best,' to my grandmother .
The woman turned to my grandfather and looked him up an down. 'She-Who-Travels-Alone, does not wish to speak with you,' she said simply.
My grandfather smiled slightly and turned to look at my grandmother.
'I suppose I should have expected such a reception,' he said pleasantly, 'But please understand that I have come to make you my wife. I have drunk water from the cactus, caught fish from the deepest lake and learnt which are the sweetest berries. You cannot turn me away, because I am the same as you. We have shared experiences no others have had, you are me and I am you. Neither of us can hide from the other and none can keep us apart. You can fight it if you wish, but know that the outcome will be the same.'
He stood looking at her quietly, whilst the women whispered together, waiting for my grandmother's response.
Slowly, she stood up, walked to my grandfather & slapped his cheek. 'That is for keeping me waiting,' she said. 'And this,' she continued,' is for coming back.' And she kissed him full on the mouth, to the sound of excited and scandaised twittering.

The Story of the Not-So-Special Little Girl

Once upon a time, there was a girl whose legs were too short and whose hands were too clumsy. She was not smart, so she couldn't handle her numbers, but then the animals frightened her, so she couldn't be used in the fields. Her voice was not fine, and her face was not beautiful. She was non-descript and useless in most every way.

' I do not know what to do with her,' sighed her mother to the other village mothers. 'She will never be married with a face like that. She has no charm, no grace. It doesn't matter how many ribbons I buy her, or how much lace, it only seems to make her worse.' The village women shook their heads sadly, as the girl shuffled past them, staring at her feet.

'She is not smart enough to make her own way,' complained her father to the other farmers, 'And she is of no use to me. I suppose I shall have to keep her until my death, but who knows what will happen then?' The other men grunted in agreement, as the girl tripped over spade lying on the ground in front of them.

'Her bread is lumpy, her cakes sour, her stews salty,' cried her grandmother to the other old ladies over tea. 'She cannot even make a proper cross-stitch! What is the point of such a grandchild?' She cried, as the other ladies shrugged in bewilderment and the girl took a burnt pie out of the oven.

The girl knew the disappointment she brought to her family, but try as she might, she couldn't change her habits. It didn't matter how many times she brushed her hair, it still looked dull, and it didn't matter how many flans she baked, they always sunk in the middle. It didn't matter how many pails she carried, or how many miles she walked, her limbs still stayed weak, and it didn't matter how many times she looked at her numbers, they still looked like foreign objects to her.

The girl would lie awake at night for hours, coming up with new plans to improve herself when she could no longer think of any more plans to put into action, she would cry herself to sleep. Then, one winter, a terrible sickness swept through the girl's village. The sickness struck down young & old, healthy & sick, covering their skin with a yellow sheen and spreading purple bruises over their cheeks, their arms and their legs. It struck down most everyone, except the girl herself.

Every morning she would wake to find herself still a healthy pink colour, her limbs still moving and her head clear. She would leave the house, not wanting to be a burden to her family and walk through the village, which was now so quiet it seemed to be abandoned, uncertain of what to do with herself. She caught glimpses of bed-ridden people through the curtains, and moved away quickly, before anyone saw her.

One morning, tired of walking the streets, tired of avoiding her home, she went into the kitchen and started to cook a big pot of stew. She filled it with every good thing she could find in the cupboard, and stood stirring it for hours over a slow flame. Ever so hesitant, she picked up the pot and took it next door to her sick neighbours. She poured out bowls and fed it to them slowly. When she ran out of stew, she returned home and made more, and when she ran out ingredients, she headed out to the market in the next town and dragged back huge bags of vegetables, beans and meat. The sick commented that the stew didn't seem nearly as salty as the grandmother had complained, in fact, it seemed quite tasty and healthy, and they eagerly ate it up, always happy for seconds if it was on offer.

She started visiting the village children, and made up stories of Kings & Queens, of heroic adventures & far-off countries. She racked her brains to think of more and more exciting tales, to come up with more and more imaginative descriptions. She would create individual stories for each child, and sit with them until they fell peacefully asleep. The children were surprised to realise that they had never really heard her speak before, and even more surprised to find that her voice was full of love & comfort, a warmth that reminded them of their mothers & a wit that reminded them of their fathers. They agreed that hers were the best stories they had ever heard & they wouldn't let her go through the village without stopping and telling them another story.

She sat with the young men of the town, and wiped their brows, held their hands, offered them words of love & comfort, such that they felt they were the most unique, most loved and most important young man in the girl's world. they were surprised to find that in her plain clothes, without ribbons or lace, without her hair done in pin-curls, the girl's face was the most pleasant and longed-for face they had ever encountered. Hers was the face they hoped to see when there was a knock at the door, and the one they dreamed of when they slipped into unconsciousness at the end of the day.

For weeks, the girl nursed her village along with her family. She made their food, washed thier sheets, gave them their medicine, made them feel loved & cared for, made them feel stronger than they had ever felt, even before their sickness. She gave them everything she had to give - her time, her effort, her comfort and her love. She barely slept, she ate only what was left over after the others had eaten, she hardly washed, she barely stopped moving for a full month.

Then, just as the winter was starting to mellow, and the spring sun was peeking through the clouds, the villagers started getting out of their beds, began to start making their own bread & soups and noticed that their bruises were subsiding. It was then that the girl collapsed in the middle of the town squre, spilling her life-giving stew all over the cobblestones, the potatoes and carrots rolling out of the pot and into the gutter.

She was taken by the villagers back to her family's home, where they laid her in her little bed, at the top of the stairs, in the attic. They brought her food, and books, and sat by her side, holding her hand, whilst her own family sat in the kitchen, grumbling about the traffice of the village on their stairs, arguing with their neighbours about whether their daughter deserved such attention and if there was any value in trying to save such a worthless little girl.

Try as the villagers might, the girl, grew weaker & weaker & paler & paler. The sickness was not the same as theirs, and the medicines they gave her didn't seem to make a difference. She never turned yellow, and the purple flowers never bloomed across her face.

The villagers kept coming, however, because despite her illnes, the girl's room was still the nicest place in the village to visit. The girl's hands were still the most comforting the villagers' knew, her eyes the most full of love & joy they could hope to look on, and her voice still the calmest, most soothing and full of the mmost sensible advice in any of the surrounding areas. They came to her with all their problems, all their insecurities and unhappiness and left feeling better.

Still the girl grew paler & weaker, & the villagers worried day in and day out about how to make her better. The children made her daisy chains to hang around her room. The young men brought her books and spoke to her of the latest remedies on offer in the town, which they would insist on fetching for her. The young women sewed blankets, knitted socks, cooked stews and constantly cleaned the girl's room, airing out everything they could get their hands on, and finding new & improved ways of getting light & air into the girl's room.

Meanwhile, her family sat in their kitchen, getting grumpier and grumpier, refusing to go upstairs and visit their 'worthess' daughter. Finally, the oldest woman in the village, who also happened to be the wisest, was brought to see the girl and to offer her solution.

The old woman shuffled quietly into the room, and sat next to the girl as the villagers closed the door. She took the girl's pale face in her wrinkles hands and looked deep into the young girl's eyes for several minutes. Then, without saying anything, she smiled sadly and kissed the girl on her forehead. Then she shuffled out of the room to speak to the other villagers.

'She is giving too much of herself, and not getting enough in return,' the old woman told them. 'We must leave her to heal on her own. No more coming for short visits that last for hours. No more asking for advice. No more stories. We must let her be. She must sleep and heal. And, her family must come upstairs and sit with her. In a few weeks, she will be better.' The villagers nodded, though it broke their hearts. Howe would they survive for a month without the girl in their lives? How would they get by without her kind words & sweet nature? Still, they took their things and went home.

The girl lay in her room, and her family stayed in the kitchen. The family were sulking, always making up excuses as to why they couldn't go upstairs to see their daughter. 'The stairs are too steep,' complained the grandmother, 'I might fall.'

'I have too much work to do,' sighed the mother,' I can't possibly take time out to see her. She understands.'

'Its not place to visit her,' grunted the father, 'A sick room is a woman's place.'

Every night, the girl would go to sleep, hoping someone might come up to see her. Then, one evening, three weeks after the villagers had left the girl to heal, she was woken by the sounds of quiet crying. She opened her window to see a small child sitting outside her house and crying as hard as it was possible for such a small child to cry.

'Little Boy,' cried the girl, 'What on earth has upset you so?"

The little boy looked up, scared, shook his head, buried his chin into his chest and started to cry again. The girl coughed, and with all her effort, called out to him again. 'Little Boy! Please, it breaks my heart to see you so sad, tell me what has upset you, so that I might help you.'

The little boy looked up again, bottom lip quivering. 'The Old Woman said we weren't to bother you,' he sniffed, 'She says you are sick.'

'Stuff and nonsense,' said the girl, 'I am as well as you, in face, I am better, as I am not crying as if my heart had broken. Tell me what has happened.'

The little boy hesitated ever so slightly before launching into his sotry . He lived on the outskirts of the village, in a sad, poor little house with his mother & father and two littls sisters. Their little vegetable patch had only produced sick, tiny vegetables this year, and they had no money for milk & bread. He had been sent into town to steal something, anything, to eat, because his younger sisters were sick with fever and would die if they had nothing in their bellies. But the little boy did not know how to steal, and he did not want to, because he knew it was bad and it scared him. So he decided to ask people, very politely, if they could spare him a little food. He was ready to explain the story, if anyone asked, ,ready to take them back to the little house to show them his little sisters, lying in bed, tossing & turning from the pain of the fever. But there was no need. No one listened to him. He was pushed asied by everyone he approached. They sped up as they saw him come towards them, or crossed the street, or turned into each other, pretending they had simply missed him.

As he told the story, he started to cry again, his shoulders shaking with the intensity of his sobs, knowing that his sisters were dying at home.

The girl hesistated ever so slightly, before calling out, 'Don't worry little boy. I will help you. We have plenty of food. You will come inside and I will make your sisters something that is so hearty it will keep them healthy until their 21st birthdays.'

She struggled up from the window, and wrapped herself in warm clothers, then headed downstairs .There she found the little boy, dirty and tear stained, standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

'Well, first things first,' she said, when she saw him, 'Let's get you cleaned up.' She washed the dirt off his face with warm water, wrapped him in a blanket, then propper him up on the counter with a cup of warm milk mixed with a teaspoon of honey. She buttered two thick slices of fresh, fluffy white bread, and watched him devour them in quick succession. She cut him two more, and then started wrking on her soup. She peeled carrots, cut pumpkin, potatoes, washed beans and sliced meat. She added spices and flavouring, adding more and more of whatever good things she coud find until the large pot was close to overflowing with bubbling, thick and fragrant soup. All the while, she spoke to the boy, spinning him story after fantastic story, making him laugh and dream, until the harsh words of the villagers, the despair of his parents, and his own fear were long-distant memories.

As the sun started to rise, the girl lifted the pot carefully off the store and handed it to the little boy. But, it was so heavy that he could not carry it more than a few steps. The girl hesitated only slightly, before getting her coat & boots from the hall. Carrying the pot carefully, she followed the little boy back to his home, as he skipped & danced & sang with delight ahead of her. The soup was delivered, and the girls fed. The parents expressed their gratitude over & over, until the girl was quite overwhelmed. Waving away their promises of paying her back eventually, the girl insisted she must get home to bed. The little boy, despite the girl's protests, insisted on coming with her, in case she were to get lost. He jabbered alongside her, not noticing her foot falls getting slower & quieter as they went along. Just past the town square, he became aware that she was no longer beside him, and as he turned around, he heard voices of distress from behind.

The girl had collapsed, dead, in the middle of the twon square.

The Story of the Ice-Cream Man

Once upon a time, there was a very special little village, tucked far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Of course, now, it is a non-descript suburb, in a sprawling metropolis, serviced by the same two supermarkets every city suburb has, with a nice, conventional park complete with its own cookie-cutter swing-set & slide. At the time of this story, however, it was still a delightful little village, full of hedges, white picket fences, people who knew each other by name as well as sight, and where it was still possible for children to play ball games in the street without fear of being hit by cars or abused by paedophiles.

In this village, there lived an ice-cream man. Now, this was no ordinary ice-cream man. This was not your everyday, middle-aged, grouchy ice-cream man in a faded, dirty, pink and white van who sold pig-fat, soft-serve ice-cream in stale, neon-orange cones. This was a man who believed in the inherent goodness and value of ice-cream. The ability of ice-cream to brighten one's day; to forge friendships and new love; to change lives for the better. This ice-cream man was young, handsome, idealistic; he had a charming smile for everyone he met, and an ice-cream flavour for every occasion. He had ice-cream that would fix any problem, celebrate any event, and suit every mood & personality. There was dark pistachio chocolate for the adults, bubblegum-sherbet surprise for the kids. There was strawberry & cream for sixteen-year old sweethearts, and chili chocolate for the passionate lovers. On a hot, frazzled day, he'd suggest you sit outside in the shade and try a chilled melon and lime sorbet (with real melon pieces). On a cold day, he'd bundle you up in to the shop, sit you by the heater, while he whipped you up a hot fudge sundae, with your choice of three ice-creams, nuts, cream and sauce (with a hot chocolate to wash it all down).

The ice-cream man was an institution in the little village - everyone knew him, everyone bought his ice-cream, and no one had a bad word to say about him.

But, whilst the ice-cream man loved his ice-cream and loved the joy people got from it, he always felt that something was missing. When a new girl from a far away country town started working at the local dress-maker's store, he finally realised what it was.

The ice-cream man began to spend his every lunch break, sitting on the bench opposite the dressmaker's. Soon, he found himself there more and more often, found that every errand he had to run would take him past the dressmaker's. Eventually, his day became one long lunch break, and he stopped setting foot inside his ice-cream parlour at all.

'This will not do,' thought the ice-cream man, as more and more of the villagers came to complain to him that they could no longer get their daily ice-cream fix, with him, sitting, staring at the little, red-haired seamstress all day long.

'This will not do,' he thought to himself, as he watched the little seamstress pack up her things for the umpteenth time, lock up the dress shop and leave without him being able to catch her eye.

'I must say something to her.'

But try as he might, the ice-cream man couldn't bring himself to talk to the little seamstress. He fretted for days and days, practiced conversations in front of the mirror, watched her arrive at work and watched her leave, but could never find the right moment to approach her.
Finally, he hit upon a plan.

'I will create for her, her very own ice-cream flavour, one that she cannot resist and which expresses my feelings for her without words,' he thought. 'When she takes a bite, she will suddenly realise what it is I want to say, and she will rush into my open arms, and never leave them as long as we both shall live.'

That night, he spent 3 hours coming up with the perfect mix of strawberries, raspberries and mulberries, all chosen for their red colours and sweet taste, 'the colour of my heart and her hair, the sweetness of her person and my love,' he thought to himself.

The ice-cream man was very pleased with his creation, and brought the little seamstress a small pink tub of the ice-cream, decorated with little red swirls, to her work the next day. Not wishing to be rude, he left her with the little tub, to eat in peace, and told her he would return that afternoon to see how she had liked it.

That afternoon, the ice-cream man returned to the seamstress and asked her if she had enjoyed the ice-cream. 'Mmm,' she replied, non-committedly, keeping her distance, and most definitely not running into the ice-cream man's arms. 'It was very... pink,' she said in an off-hand way.
Convinced he had created the wrong ice-cream and therefore sent the wrong message, the ice-cream man hurried home, determined to try again.

This time, he worked for 6 hours, to find the perfect blend of white chocolate, milk chocolate and hazelnuts, to show the various shades of his love for the little seamstress. 'White chocolate for the purity of my love, milk chocolate for the warmth of my love, and hazelnuts for the nourishing and fulfilling nature of my love.'

The next morning, he took her a few generous scoops, in a carved, wooden tub. Again, not wanting to embarrass her, he left her in peace to taste the ice-cream, promising to return that afternoon.

When he came back, he was disappointed to see that the little seamstress was still busily working. He had expected, or hoped, to find her so distracted & overwhelmed by his ice-cream that she would be unable to focus on anything else. 'Mmm...' she replied, when he asked her if she had enjoyed the ice-cream. 'It seemed very...decadent.'

Convinced he had made yet another faux pas, the ice-cream man returned to his parlour, determined to succeed this time & make the little seamstress the most spectacular ice-cream she had ever tasted.

That night, he worked from dusk to dawn. He did not sleep, and did not stop working until he was convinced he had created the perfect ice-cream. 'If she does not love me after this,' thought the ice-cream man, 'then I am surely wasting my time.' He had made an ice-cream of blackberries & blueberries (to symbolise his pain at not having the little seamstress for his own), of raspberries & strawberries (to symbolise her heavenly nature), he had mixed in thickened cream to show the richness of his love, and covered it all in dark chocolate to show the seriousness of his intentions. He presented it all in a silver ice-cream tub, hand-crafted by his father, the original ice-cream man, and carried it to the little seamstress on a plate decorated by flowers.

Once he handed the plate to the little seamstress, the ice-cream man went outside, pacing the pavement and anxiously awaiting the little seamstress' verdict. When she did not burst out of the store within 10 minutes, the ice-cream man's heart began to sink. After 20 minutes, he had stopped pacing and stood, staring at the door, willing the little seamstress to appear. At 30 minutes, the ice-cream man went inside the dressmaker's store to meet his fate.

'Well?' he asked, when he saw her over the counter. 'Mmmm...' said the little seamstress, trying not to catch the eye of the ice-cream man. 'Mmm....' she said again, as she picked up spare bits of cloth and cleared them away. 'It seemed very.... colourful... ice-cream.'

The ice-cream man turned and walked out of the dressmaker's shop with his shoulders slumped. He immediately returned to his ice-cream parlour, locked the door and hung a 'For Sale' sign on the front window.

The ice-cream man is now an accountant in the heart of the sprawling metropolis. He no longer believes in the power of anything to change anybody (except perhaps for money) and tries not to remember in the morning time, the dreams of the little seamstress that he has at night.

The little seamstress is now married to the local gym instructor and spends her time exercising, counting calories and cooking sugar-free, fat-free, gluten-free meals for her husband and children. If the ice-cream man had only known that the little seamstress was ALWAYS on a diet, things might have worked out differently.