My new story on the Storgy website.
The front door clicks gently, and as I step into the cool stillness, it reminds me of how the day used to start when I was a boy – with the electric whirr and clinking bottles of the milk-float. The sound was friendly, like the milkman himself. He’d come around, every Friday night and stand in our doorway, asking about Gran’s health, and about Eileen who’d moved to Australia three years before. Sometimes he’d tell jokes, or pull a sweet out from behind my ear, while Mum counted coins from her purse. His barrel-chested bonhomie filtered through to everyone he met. Many mornings, you’d collect your pint from the doorstep, to be greeted with a cheery hello from a neighbour or a passerby. You don’t get that now.
These days, people choose to wander supermarket aisles like zombies instead, barely able to glance up from their…
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