The milkman

He carries the crate to the door, slogan to the fore.
He bends and rings the bell, a couple of times.
The door hung with a Christmas wreath opens.

“Are you Mrs Monaghan?”

“I didn’t realise there were going to be all these people.”

There’s a clicking of cameras as if Kate was in view.

Debbie’s barefoot in her loungewear.

“I wish I’d put my make-up on now.”

She calls her husband. “Matt, Matt!”

He steps forward, shakes the milkman’s hand.

“Thank you for all these lovely things.”

"There’s chocolate milk, orange juice, washing-up liquid, mince pies."

“I hope the washing-up liquid is eco-friendly."

“It’s all eco-friendly, no plastic."

“That’s why we do it now.”

She turns to her child, hiding behind her.
“Say bye, bye Amelia.”
Turning to the milkman.
“This is the future.”

“We’re going to build her a better future.”

“That’s all we want.”

The milkman

The milkman leaves to take his fluffy clouds of dreams of policemen,
and hospitals and billions more for the NHS
down another garden path.

They’ll remember that Christmas as the one that the milkman
and his entourage came to visit.