Bordering the bus station its blue wicker seating, glass-topped tables and distinctive smell attracted me from a very early age. In the display cabinet at the entrance - that you had to pass - there were examples of the sundaes you could buy and, taking pride of place, a knickerbocker glory.
I longed for a knickerbocker glory, positively yearned for it. It was the unattainability of it as much as anything. The gasps that would go round the customers as one was delivered to the next table, children with eyes popping while parents quickly tried to distract them because it was a prize that only the rich could afford.
So I never had a knickerbocker glory. Until today.
Husband and I took Uncle to Verdis's where in spite of our protestations he insisted it was his treat and, 'Go on, Liz, have a knickerbocker glory.'
I refused at first but, well, it would have been rude.
And it was delicious. Apart from the difficulty of eating it without allowing too many drips of ice cream to escape down the side of the glass and possibly go to waste. And my spoon wasn't narrow enough nor my tongue long enough to get the final bit out of the bottom!