Friday, 24 April 2009
The Milkman comes at dawn, his cart drawn by steaming cows with curlicue horns, their lowing soft as blankets. Sometimes milk in the shit-caked bottles, milk for the lucky ones, raw and thick as spunk, the cream yellow and spreadable. Sometimes he brings eggs, each blue shelled with the virgin in its yolk, delivered in the nest, or pungent, weeping cheeses wrapped in hide. Capricious Milkman doesn’t always deliver and from time-to-time does worse, depositing on doorsteps pints of slurry, pigs’ ears or piteous two-headed calves which whimper and flail and have to be dealt with.