I sat having breakfast, Weetabix with a banana and grapes, and stared at the milk jug. It’s a four pinter. Not as big as a six pinter but it still holds a goodly amount of milk. Whatever is in my bowl the milk is a constant. It’s been there as long as civilisation and before. It is easy to let the mind drift off to days in the past where the milk has been there with other people sat around the table, or around the fire.
The delivery mechanism has changed over the years from jugs to bottles to cartons and plastic bottles but the basic content inside is the same. We get trendy modern variations such as semi-skimmed and skimmed milk (yuk) but the white stuff is fundamentally unchanged.
There is something comforting about the timelessness of the jug of milk. Having it on the table means all is well, nothing has changed.
It sits there, unpeturbed
The milk in its white glazed jug
With pictures of cows on the front
At your service.
Pick up and pour.
When I was at university I would have three pints of milk a day – breakfast, lunch and dinner. It ranks as one of my all-time favourite drinks together with water, a good cup of tea and a pint of Timothy Taylors Landlord bitter. Years ago it used to be Marston’s Pedigree but Landlord has overtaken it. The milk does have to be cold though.
These days three out of four kids have the taste. When everyone is at home we go through five or six pints a day. Anne has to supplement the delivery from the dairy with purchases from Tesco.
Drinka pinta milka day.
It’s disappeared off the table in front of me now, the jug of milk. Put away in the refrigerator by an efficient soul. Breakfast is over though the cereals need putting away. I’ll do that once I’ve finished my second cup of tea and dropped Joe and his trumpet off at choich.
The dishwasher gurgles.
