Stealing milk
I’m beginning to wonder if stealing a bottle of milk from a doorstep is a defining moment in one’s life. OK, I have no evidence of this, apart from myself and Gerald Blanchard. He was a master thief, who first got the bug stealing the bottle of milk. He got away with it.
When I tried to steal mine, in the slightly paranoid suburbs or North East London, I was spotted by a curtain twitching neighbour and thoroughly embarrassed. I remember that being a moment where I decided that being ruthlessly honest was the best policy for me. It’s still a major part of me, and it’s worked out great.
So this is a slightly dull self-biographical thinking, but I wanted to know if everyone else stole a bottle of milk when they were younger, and wether it taught them anything?
And once you’ve done that and thoroughly bored yourself, go and add that article to your instapaper bedtime reading list. It’s not too bad. Much better than this post.
Except I don’t have comments here, and I almost turned them on, but I can’t stand comment any more. So erm, carry on.
