Steve Braunias composes a song for Mr Whippy

Mr Whippy, making icecreams with sprinkles to the soundtrack of Greensleeves since forever. Photo / Steven McNichol

Mr Whippy, there he goes, with his creamy promises, writes Steve Braunias.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously
And I have loved you oh so long
Delighting in your company.

There he goes, Mr Whippy, in his bright white van shaped like a box or a snout, arriving on my street every Saturday at around 5pm, the famous song chiming in the winter twilight. He has his familiar route. He keeps to a timetable. I think of him arriving on other streets, offering the same creamy promises – Mr Whippy is promiscuous.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my lady greensleeves.

There he goes, Mr Whippy, playing his famous eight notes. But you know it from the very first note; everyone does, the young, the old, throughout our two islands since 1964, and in England since 1958. Of course the idea for it came from England. The tune is as English as royalty and rain. A folk song, thin and fragile – strange that the theme tune for all that creamy happiness is so melancholy, so lugubrious.

If you intend to be this way
It does the more enrapture me
And even so I still remain
A lover in captivity.

There he goes, Mr Whippy, or to give him his name in west Auckland: Kevin. Kevin has been doing this run ever since I moved to Te Atatu eight years ago. Kevin is a reliable, constant feature of Te Atatu life, as steady as the tide that drags in and out over the mudflats, and he always has a smile on his face, actually seems to love his job and the joy it brings – Mr Whippy is an awesome guy.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my lady greensleeves.

There he goes, Mr Whippy, arriving on my street and then turning right into a cul de sac, where he parks and waits. I watch him from the window. For years, the chimes of Greensleeves would act like an emergency siren: I would swing into action, scrape up coins or search for my eftpos card, and race across the street with Minka and down the end of the cul de sac before he left – and then, ice-creams in hand, strolling back home as relaxed as I've ever felt in my life.

Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu
God, I pray he will prosper thee
For I am still thy lover true
Come once again and love me.

There he goes, Mr Whippy, playing his sad love song, his immortal record of heartbreak in the Tudor age. The original lyrics, as published in 1584, refer to petticoats and jewels, to a "smock of silk" and a "girdle of gold". It's all in the past; it's an elegy for a broken home, for absence. The chimes shriek in the winter twilight but I don't move. The rules are very clear: thou shalt not approach Mr Whippy unless you're accompanied by a child. "One double flake dip, please"- it's just not right for a 60-year-old to place such an order.

Greensleeves was all my joy
Greensleeves was my delight
Greensleeves was my heart of gold
And who but my lady greensleeves.

There he goes, Mr Whippy, parked up at the cul de sac but only for a minute. He starts his motor again. It's winter, no one's around; children grow up, they move away; I want to rush out and tell Kevin not to despair, that he hasn't been forsaken or forgotten; I picture the soft cones and little tubs, going to waste; my heart is breaking for him, nothing lasts forever – and then I see a mum and her daughter running down my street, and into the cul-de-sac, waving for Kevin to stop, for Mr Whippy to scoop up his love.

Next week: Siena Yates