The Float

The float. But not fancy modern shite. Not for Ronnie Marsden. Been on the milk round all of his working life.

Midnight at the Dalston depot. Empties offloaded. Loading up the bottles and pantry for his round. He’d soon be away from the noise.

—Oi! Ronnie!

Steve Baker, one of the bosses.

—New float for yer soon, eh?

—Nope. I’ll stick wi’ this one.

—Nah, yer need—

—No. I don’t.

He patted the side of his float.

—Proper job, this.

Steve sighed and shook his head.

Ronnie set off. The hum of the motor was the only thing worth hearing.