I remember.

I remember the stumpy glass bottles of milk we had for ‘play lunch’ in primary school.
I remember hearing them being delivered in stacks of purple-brown or purple-red plastic crates.

I remember sitting cross-legged on the cool linoleum floor of the classroom. I remember sitting on one of the multi-colored concentric circles. I remember it was the red one because that was the coolest one to sit on. I remember watching the crates being stacked under the eaves of the walkway outside. I remember the sun creeping across them, warming the bottles, which would sweat rainbow diamond drops of water. I remember it clearly. The milk would be served in glass…..wet, warm, and disgusting.

I remember the milk was taken under close supervision. No play until you have drunk your milk. As if some sort of medication. As if some sort of deep gastric punishment.

I remember some kids were fine with it. I remember I was not.

I remember taking a note left for our milkman at home (I remember when milk was delivered to the house each morning). “No milk today please.” I remember folding it into an envelope and taking it to school and giving to my teacher in a vain attempt to not drink the warm, curdled brew. I remember saying the note was from my mum. I remember drinking a particularly warm and extra disgusting milk that day.

I remember the smell of the empty bottles all stacked up again, waiting for collection. I remember the milk patina. I remember the sour milk smell.

I remember the red and gold metal bottle tops. I remember saving them in a cardboard box that would be kept somewhere secret until Christmas when it would materialise and we would punch holes in the tops with tiny blunt scissors and string them in long glinting decorations along the ceilings.

I remember not all the tops were decorations. I remember flicking them from between crossed index and first fingers. Tiny red and gold frisbees that could under optimal atmospheric conditions and with a keen flicking aptitude, make it clear across the classroom.

I remember scrunching the tops into tiny projectiles that could be launched with a wooden ruler held in the fist like a trebuchet. Under the correct conditions, these tiny metallic meteorites could attain geostationary orbit.

I remember it well. But most of mosts, I remember the milk.