Milk
''The most enjoyable part of my life in Athlone was when, aged about seven, I was taken on as helper by the (to me) enormous Mr Molloy, our milkman, who delivered milk in his donkey cart to his customers at a decidedly leisurely pace every morning. The poor donkey, heavily laden, could not be blamed for taking its time... Mr Molloy, who was a quiet, redfaced moustached nan - he had been a rowing man in his youth but had badly 'gone to seed' - would take a ritual mid-morning pint. I minded the donkey. After I had 'served my time' and learned how to drive, to regulate the tap and to fill the measure (once or twice according to the customer's needs with always the small extra drop for luck or for the cat) it became Mr Molloy's practice to dismount slowly and solemnly outside the pub, enter a sweet shop, and bring me out a small twist of brown paper, filled with a pennyworth of sweets. We never said anything to one another. I knew real happiness for the firs...