the milkman

they call me the milkman. well, they don’t, but one day they will.

wednesday, 2.35pm, training session 46.

I sit at the kitchen table, mentally preparing myself for the task in hand. I double check the revised training schedule I stuck to the fridge last week. My early efforts had been slightly over ambitious, I have since learned the value of setting realistic targets. I don the apron, it could really do with a wash but the washing machine is still broken. I close my eyes. breathe deeply. focus. I pick up the stopwatch. I can do it. I believe in myself. I have to believe in myself, no one else does. they all left, said I was a dreamer, delusional. I’ll prove them all wrong. another deep breath in, slowly out again, settle my trembling nerves. the time is now.

with my left hand I click the stopwatch, with my right I shovel the Lactaid pills into my gob. crunching ferociously, I deftly uncap the first four pinter. as I gulp down the white nectar, I catch a glimpse of my future stardom. the world’s first lactose intolerant competitive milk drinking champion.