I remember hearing the zzzzzzz...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...of the milk-delivery float outside my window early one summer morning. The day had not yet fully broken, and the smell of something burning in some farmer's field drifted in on the breeze, mixing with the regular smells of rural Somerset. I could hear Trevor, the skinny fellow from down the lane, making his way back home with Max, his yellow lab. From the cussing and harrumphing I could tell that Max had probably found his way into a pile of badger poo out in one of the fields, and Trevor was going to have a bit of clean-up work when they returned. Trevor had been helping David lay hedges at his farm, and had developed a grand familiarity as well as a great hatred for badger poo. He had told me this over a pint just last night, and my only profound early morning thought on that perfect Somerset daybreak was of poor Trevor and the greasy badger poo that he would be trying to clean out of Max's coat in a few minutes.
I pulled the duvet up close around my nose, took another sniff of something burning in the field, and thought about going down to start the water boiler and getting a brew going. The milk was fresh on the doorstep, and just waiting to be in my cup.
