Dave, the humming milkman

Another excerpt from my Dole Diaries

Monday, 11 April 2005
'Eighteen years ago, I was at the tail-end of pushing out my baby. In fact, her birth is about 15 minutes away. Her head is about to crown; I'm about to give one last exhausted push. No time for pain; it's beyond that. Now, these many years later, I cannot tell the pleasure she has brought.
On Sunday, we celebrated with friends, bottles of Cava and the largest, creamiest, fruitiest cake allied with one other, a gorgeous chocolate creation, baked by one of her friends. After they took off for the pub I washed-up and picked up and felt satisfied. I like Sundays as they are no-man's territory in the real world.
Not so a Monday. An email from my accountant who has heard from the Inland Revenue that I have changed my work status. I should say I have. I must explain my sorry state to him. I've been reluctant to do this, feebly hoping for a miracle.
I look about at the day's options. I can't wash-up any more. My bed is made. I'm running out of diversions. My daughter is in the bath with a blare of music leaking out. She goes to school late on Mondays. I write this.
No milk on my doorstep today. It was a twice-weekly routine that I have had to abandon. I can't afford to pay extra for milk and the luxury of its delivery. But, I'd rather have Dave in his humming milkfloat dropping off milk than the 40 pence saving each week.
I'm walking more, and the saddles of flesh are disappearing fast. A few years ago I abandoned car ownership.
When purchasing the Cava last week, I couldn't remember my PIN number. I tried again. No luck. Stressed about my financial situation? I think this tells the story. The numbers have become scrambled. Even now I'm spending intermittent moments going through combinations of the four numbers, having had the same PIN for a decade. If I don't get it right next time, a machine will gobble it. And if it does, I'll be given a new PIN, and how challenging will that be for my stressed-to-breaking-point brain?
With the weather sunny, I have spent the afternoon in the garden. Weeding, mowing, tidying. Strikes me (a little too late) I should be growing my own vegetables. But, sharing the garden with several cats, families of foxes and ever-more squirrels, I'm not sure of the wisdom of that course. All is quiet until the next-door neighbours return and the kids start screaming about a slaughtered robin in their garden. Is it the tabby that has left it blood-spattered? The father digs a small grave for the corpse, but before he can deposit it, a cat slinks along and pees in it.
About five o'clock I'm exhausted from doing not very much and take a nap.
Before that, I have a telephone conversation with a woman who is following-up my enquiry about getting into teaching literacy skills to adults. Ah, she says, firstly I’ll need to work for a year as a volunteer (no expenses paid), then I’ll need to study for a PGCE -- one year full-time or two years part-time and at that point I can be considered for employment. I say I'll think about it and laugh my head off. Then, feel sad because it is something I could do.'