At the age of twenty four I was married to my first wife and had a couple of kids. I worked as an artist for a wrought iron company and really enjoyed my work although the pay was not good.
My wife at that time was most unhappy that I could not keep her in the luxury that she was used to and constantly nagged me to find a better paying job. The problem was that a flat went with the job and if I left I would be evicted. I eventually plucked up the courage to get a better paying job as a welder (Something I had learned at the wrought iron company) and hoped that the council would re-house me if I got evicted. The welding job was awful, I suffered from Arc Eye and absolute boredom and as my dad was still a milkman he suggested that I should give it a go. I did not have a car and lived out in the country so my wonderful old man used to pick me up very early in the morning to take me to work. He was a supervisor and fiddled it so he could train me. In those days you were accompanied for about a month until you got to know your round and those early days were some of the best days of my life. It was spring time, the people on the round were brilliant and I had one of the best instructors possible to become a milkman. Even although I say this myself it takes a very special person to do this job. You have be able to get up very early in the morning, be prepared to work a seven day week, get used to being soaked through, it is no fun trying to walk up and down garden paths with wellington boots and heavy waterproof clothing on, have the ability to talk to and sell your produce and to be able to balance your books at the end of the week. If you came short you were expected to make it up. It is simple fact of a milkman’s life; you have to fiddle a little to make your books come straight at the end of the week. It is easy to forget to book half a pound of butter or have something nicked from your float and it has to be made up somehow. How is just another story?