Jack Milroy, a farmer (of Freers Farm, Woodgate), is on his daily milk round in Ridgacre Road, Quinton, delivering the product of his own herd. It's the 1940s or1950s. "Lady" is doing her job up front and on the trap there are crates of milk bottles and perhaps other items. Somewhere there on the platform is a churn and an associated metal vessel of a particular size: this is lowered into the urn to be filled with a precise quantity of milk (measured in gills, which is one quarter of a pint) and this is then dispensed to those housewives who prefer to use their own jugs rather than bottles. Perhaps it is cheaper like that or possibly they just like to follow the old ways. Sometimes they come to the trap to collect it and chat for a moment as they hand over their few pence; or Jack will go to their front door to save them the bother. And sometimes, if it's a Saturday or the school holidays, Jack's eight or ten-year-old daughter takes the tin up the garden path, pours the milk into the waiting jug and is rewarded with a penny or a sweet.
When Jack has finished his round and nears the farm, his dog Rex will run to greet him and Lady, jump up onto the trap and complete the journey there, happy in the return of his master. And then, all the day's farming work to do and preparation for tomorrow's round.
As they have waited for the friendly farmer to turn into their street that morning, how many housewives would have been dreaming of a retail cathedral and spot-lit shelves rammed with 1 or 2 or 4 litre cartons or plastic bottles, full of skimmed/semi-skimmed/full/organic/filtered/lactose-free/long-life/soya/flavoured? Not too many, I imagine.
Chris