It was generally a career, not a job. As a relic of a bygone age, mercifully the milkman is finally making the slowest of slow comebacks. They still evoke fond childhood memories of Ernie, as he courted a lady known as Sue, who lived all alone, in Lidley Lane, at number 22.

I confess, I have some insider knowledge as I was once a member of the full fat crowd, slowing down traffic on the A21 as I raced at 6mph to avoid the flirtatious geriatric at Cuckoo Cottage. Beryl seemed to have a fatal attraction to men who carried eight bottles of milk between their digits as they juggled a box of the finest broken biscuits. The real joy of this exercise was that, if you happened to have a stumble, the confectionery items were already damaged so no consumer upset would be caused.

There aren’t many sounds more miserable than an alarm clock at 3am. I would step outside to be met by an arctic chill that would not abate until finishing my round. The floats had no heating and, in the days before safety boots, I would wear a pair of non-Gore Tex Reebok classic trainers with which to walk the 12 miles per day. The work was cold, energetic and poorly paid, but, on the plus side it got me out the house and back in time for Pebble Mill at one.

I have fond memories of my world record milk float speed challenge, undertaken down Harley Chute Road in Hastings. I managed to get it to go 63mph which, with no suspension and 550 rattling bottles, left me shaking through fear during the slow down mile. The one word of advice before I undertook my youthful challenge was 'don’t do it’. The floats are chain driven and, legend has it, there were cases where milkmen lost their lives when the chain stuck and flipped the float over like an extremely jangly and unaesthetic Catherine wheel.

In the days before #metoo, I would occasionally be met at the door by both genders of pensionable age, the usual trick being that their dressing gown had ‘accidently’ popped open. I felt more harassed by those who wanted to chat in the knowledge that I had another 220 houses to visit and five guard dogs to negotiate.

Despite the apparent negative slant, I look back fondly and have been saddened by the death of the milkman in intervening years. Competing on price with large retailers is now impossible. Losing a pillar of the community, the tinkle of milk bottles to wake you up, and a cheery hello have been missed.

Thanks, peculiarly, to David Attenborough, the milkman is now coming back from the dead. Due to the planets plight against the evil fiend of ‘plastic’, milk deliveries have increased 25 per cent this year alone. We want glass as a receptacle, to employ people, and to have that community feel. It is a comforting sight to hear the whir of the float come steaming down the road and to spot which of your neighbours are overdosing on Just Juice.

The notes in the bottles also evoke fond memory, despite the illegible scrawl of many, and the possibility of theft from your front door step are worth the risk to bring back a bit of positive nostalgia.

Welcome back Ernie, you have been sorely missed. You may not be the fastest milk cart in the West, and this may be a short-lived reprise with the glory days never to be revisited, but you have proved that you are worth a place in any local community. Your profession has displayed tenacity, longevity and no end of bottle, and I, for one, will drink to that.

- Brett Ellis is a teacher who lives in London Colney