Lockley: Confessions of our retiring milkman

Sep 8 2008

“AS you know,” boomed the Major during a hurriedly called meeting at the Assembly Rooms, “Pete the Milkman is retiring after serving this parish for close on half-a-century.

“He has provided an invaluable service to villagers, young and old alike, come rain or shine. And, really, the parish council would like your thoughts on what we, as a community, should do.”

Don’t look at me. I’m not getting up at 5am to drive a float.

“I meant to mark his departure,” said the Major, a tad testilly.

“We should,” stuttered village simpleton Bernard, “tie things like cans and an anvil to the back of his vehicle on his last day. Y’know, the way they do with newlyweds...and squirt foam all over it.”

“Get real!” I shouted from the back of the hall. “Are you going to get up at four in the morning to do it? The piggin’ float only goes 10 miles an hour. Stick an anvil on the back and he’d never get it out of the depot.”

Plus all that foam on a milk float would spark another foot and mouth scare.

Freedom

“Let’s give him the freedom of the parish,” gushed Mrs Jervis. “He can come at any time, day or night, and use our facilities free of charge.”

“As long as he doesn’t whistle,” shouted one wag.

We have only one public facility – a loo. The parish is proposing to show its gratitude for 50 years hard graft by allowing Pete to use as much loo roll as he likes and stick his hands under the dryer for hours at a time if he wishes.

The local paper would have a field day. It already has.

Last night it broke the bombshell exclusive of our milkman’s departure under the baffling banner headline: ‘Who Dairies Wins’. The sub-head read: ‘Pete Eyes An Udder Career’, which sounds disgusting.

The text explained Pete has fallen foul to ‘sausage fingers’, a common ailment among milkman caused by clutching ice-cold bottles.

“What kind of sausage fingers?” I demanded of the cub reporter who cobbled together the story. “Chipolatas or those really thick Walls ones?”

“Looking at them,” stammered the hackette, “I’d say the really thick ones.”

I muttered ‘poor chap’ and pointed out sternly that if the hackette had done her job correctly I wouldn’t have to ring up and ask the question. “I know,” she apologised. “You’re the seventh person.”

I’m sad Pete’s going. No matter how bleak the times, he was always there – skipping up the driveway, a cheery smile on his face and whistling something by Val Doonican, which didn’t go down well that time our house was burning down, in truth.

“People just don’t want milk delivered any more,” he told me.

“Bloody vegans,” I tutted.

He explained people prefer to get their milk, eggs, yogurt, cream, squash and the adult magazines he threw in as a sideline from supermarkets.

Their loss. A check-out girl isn’t going to demand tips at Christmas or harangue you for half-an-hour on the doorstep about football. Or run over your cat. Or kick your dog.

“It’s a completely different game now,” lamented the Milko, “everything has changed.”

“Really?” I gushed, “so what colour was milk when you first started?”

“Still white,” he insisted, looking puzzled, “but back then we used horses.”

“What the hell does horse milk taste like? Still, I suppose the Belgians eat ‘em...”

“You’ll never guess what the woman over the road asked me for?” continued Pete, choosing to ignore the comment.“Sex?”

Thought not. She’s 86.

“Bloody milk made out of soya beans. She believes milking cows is cruel. I told her straight. ‘Lady’, I said, ‘we don’t kill the cows, we just massage their udders’. She reckons that must be jolly uncomfortable, I reckon she’s led a sheltered life.”

“Is being a milkman really like those ‘Confessions’ films in the 70s?” I asked, with a wink. Has Pete had to fight off a string of frustrated housewives?

“Only one woman has greeted me at the doorstep in a sexy neglige,” he insisted, “and that was my own wife.”

That’s very romantic.

“Not really,” he tutted. “It was very worrying. She was returning home after a night out.”