At six am, I’d been on the run since five-thirty. My mouth was watering in anticipation. Ten-year-old legs pumped like the pistons in a steam engine as I ran up the alley behind Dalzie's Bakery.

I lifted my boot to make three thundering kicks on the door. My hands were frozen icicles clawed around the tops of two milk bottles. Mrs Dalzie opened the door, and the aromatic warmth of freshly baked bread bathed my cold cheeks. Mrs Dalzie levered the bottles from my frozen fingers, and in their place, shoved two hot rolls.

She gushed like my Gran. "There ye are lad, that’ll warm your wee pinkies before you get the next bottles off the wagon.” Wearing mitts was useless, because the wrath of Big Willie, when the first bottle smashed, was worse than the pain in my tingling fingertips.

I tossed the hot buns from one hand to the other like a juggler, before holding them to my prickling cheeks and running back out of the alley to the Commer milk truck. Big Willie Carson was already behind the wheel.

"Don’t you be skiving lad, if you don’t run faster, we won’t get back to the Dairy before half seven, you my boy will be late for school!”

"Ey Mr. Carson."

I climbed up and shoved one of my warm rolls into his huge, outstretched bear claw. He rammed it into his mouth whole, and that shut him up for a bit.

For two hours, six mornings a week, twice on Saturday, I ran the streets of Glasgow, delivering milk with Big Willie. Come Saturday morning, my reward was five shillings. And then, when I was eleven, my wage increased to seven shillings and sixpence. My favourite payday treat was "Lee's" macaroon bars.

Growing up in Scotland in the nineteen fifties was, for the most part, a happy existence. I was 'mother's boy'; when I was not running the streets with milk bottles, I ran errands for Mother. She sent me to the butcher's weekly for two pounds of mince, one-pound sausage squares and two-pound links. That kept our family of seven in meat for the week.

Then it was on to the Co-op. I still remember Mother's dividend number 15-7-92. I purchased the dry goods and carried them home in sacks, carefully hanging them over the handlebars of my bike. The kitchen drawer was lined with waxed paper and always filled with porridge. If one of us complained of hunger, we were directed to the 'porridge drawer.'

"Git yerself a block o' porridge," mother would say. "If ye dun't wan that, then yer novary ungry."

I was hungry enough all right, but bread and jam were more appealing than a square of solid, cold oatmeal from the drawer.

I am not exaggerating to say, I spent my childhood on the run. I ran around my milk route and ran to the co-op. I even ran in the park, pushing my brother Derek in his pram. I gave him some wild rides yet never so much as bumped his baby toe.

My most audacious adventure was organising peep shows to earn money for the Saturday cinema. I asked my mates for one shilling each to peek into the toilet window. Our toilet room was ground level, and a milk crate was 'step-up' enough to afford a view. One at a time, they would mutely step up on the crate, and wide-eyed peek into the window, drop their mouth open, and silently step down, to allow the next boy a look.

In the bathroom, she stepped out of the bath, back turned to the window, with the curtains not quite closed. Her brunette hair hung softly around her milky white shoulders. The bosoms were ample and only a wee bit saggy. Her waist had a soft curve to the hips, and she looked lovely with bits of soap suds clinging to her body. She showed just enough to keep them hoping, but not enough to be improper. My mates always hoped; maybe the next time they would see more.

Outside the window, the last boy stepped down from the crate. His expression was confrontational.

He hissed, "Give me money back; she had a towel round 'er!"

I passed him back his shilling.

"I'm first next time," he declared.

"Okay, but ye gotta be here afore half one." I reminded.

The boys trudged out of the alley.

Ma stuck her head out the window, "How'd ye do son?"

"I got four shillings, Ma."

"Good, off ye go. Tell me all about the film when ye get home."

I loved my mother.