When I was about 13 years old, I worked as a Saturday milk boy for a bloke named Frank. He had short, curly hair with no sideburns, wore heavy-framed tinted glasses and smoked Player’s No.10, which he kept in a stainless steel cigarette case. He wore a white milkman’s cap, an apron and he had a cool leather satchel where he kept all of his loose change. Any notes went into a thick, black wallet that was attached to his belt by a chain and kept in his back pocket. It must have been uncomfortable to sit on even though Frank had brought in his own cushions. Next to him on the driver’s bench sat the ledger, a thick, leather-bound, hand-written record of everyone’s bills.