Heart of Glass

Had I not been out the front of the house, watching Joshua earning some pocket money by washing the car,  I’d probably have sent the milk round sales droid on his way. But I was, and we talked, and seduced by the idea of reducing plastic use and a faint tang of nostalgia I signed us up to the thrice-weekly delivery schedule.

We talked about cars—the droid was thinking about learning to drive and we covered insurance and no-claims bonuses. He said that driving on the left wasn’t a problem because they drive on the left ‘back home’. “Oh,” I said, having already established that he lives the other side of the M25 and he didn’t know our area, “Where’s home?”.

“Mozambique”—which surprised me. I’d expected him to have been from Manchester or somewhere equally exotic.

But here we are, and I’ve been teaching Joshua the ways of the foil top, about how you have to hold the sides and not the milky surface, and indeed how to open the bottle. He is discovering the joys of either gently inverting the bottle with your thumb protecting the lid, or else having creamy milk on his Weetabix.

Do you want it pasteurized cos pasteurized is best?

The milk is delivered into an enclosed porch, so it’s unlikely he’ll see what happens when the local blue tits get thirsty, or even how the foil lid can be pushed up when it gets really cold. But soon he’ll get used to the new normal and maybe in time forget what plastic milk bottles look like.