I’m sure Barry the Milkman doesn’t think for a minute that anyone is writing about him right now. Or, rather, dreaming. He’s probably been up since 3am and is now in bed. Yet, this is where we are, Bazza.
I started having my milk delivered about 10 years ago, and I’ve never actually seen Barry. We make our dead letter drop around 5am: me, the empty bottles; he, three pints of his finest. Before he sneaks off, silently and stealthily, on his electric milk float.
The milk’s fresh, the glass bottle only needs rinsing, the lid is infinitely-recyclable aluminium and the electric transport means zero emissions in polluted cities. What’s not to love?
You can’t have Barry, he’s mine. But you can get your own at Find Me A Milkman.