I watch him arrive from our upstairs kitchen window., his headlights breaking through the black. He comes in a pick-up truck, as most milkmen do these days. When I was a child it was always a float, a rather innocuous vehicle that made, as far as I remember, a gentle, lulling kind of purring sound as in made its way along the estates and streets of my youth. I recall with even more pleasure the man who used to deliver our Nanny’s milk and dairy supplies on a horse-drawn cart. The man of today runs out of his cab, a light fixed to his baseball cap, drops off the pinta and jumps back in again. And then there is the darkness again….
