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I am rather disproportionally excited about the fact that, come Monday, we will be having a milkman calling each morning this winter. How old-school is that?! (yes, we do have our papers delivered at the weekends, too – it’s the small pleasures). Of course there will be the joy of not having to stuff on a coat over my pjs and head out to the supermarket for an emergency pint of milk for the morning porridge, but mainly the excitement is bound up with a happy dose of nostalgia…
My sister and I used to snooze in our beds as children, waiting to hear the electric hum of the milk cart whizzing down the road. With the sound of tinkling glass and a cheerful whistle we would spring up, elbowing our way down the stairs and fling open the front door. Grabbing the cool glass bottles from his grasp with the briefest of ‘good mornings’. Every day we’d get one semi-skimmed bottle and one silver top which was the prize we were chasing: that top inch of cream to crown our cornflakes.
I also remember spending a morning fashioning yoghurt pot Blue Tit deterrents, to stop the local wildlife getting their beaks on our prized dairy products. Then ‘upcycling’ those shiny silver tops and stringing them into necklaces.
As a bizarre sideline, I remember our milkman also offered 2lt bottles of seriously dodgy pop – cherryade, limeade, cream soda – neon coloured, chemically tasting stuff – my sister and I loved it. We were allowed to tick one flavour on the order form each week and battled over that week’s e-number fuelled beverage.
Suffice to say we will be giving the grim soft drinks a miss this time around, just 2 pints of the organic white stuff please.
