The Milk Mystery

Of course, this would happen to me. Nothing surprises me any more. 

First, it was troubles with the other Garden Flat only Garden Flat in the building. Now things are peachy with Mrs. Diamond-encrusted-Jimmy-Choo. Next, it was our stomping landlords. We have settled that, and they have been an absolute delight. Things were good. But nothing gold can stay.

We have a phantom top floor dweller in the house we reside in. Since living here, we have never seen his presence, just the empty milk bottles that he leaves for the milk man, in front of our door (our front entrance is secluded from the rest, and has this unlocked door leading to it. I suppose the milk man puts the dude's bottles there because they are well hidden yet easily accessible). Seriously, everyday when we leave our flat, we are greeted by either a collection of empty glass bottles for the milkman, or bottles full of luscious, creamy milk for the phantom top floor dweller. If it weren't for the milk bottles, we would never even have known that someone lives at the top of our house. Until now. 

Tuesday night, I'd just finished cycling home and I'm turning to our house entrance, when I see this lanky, hunched over man at the front gate of our house. At first, he just stares at me, and won't let me through. 

Me: Hi! I actually live here, in that flat under the stairs.

Him: I live here, too.

After staring me down to decide if I am lying or not, he then begrudgingly moves to the side to let me in.

Me: Are you the guy that gets the milk?

Him (in the most pretentious voice imaginable): Well, I am the man whom supports the local business here, yes. And part of that is buying milk locally, and having it delivered straight from the farm. 

He then glares at my Tesco's (the equivalent of a Wal-Mart, killer of all local business) bags on the handles of my bike.

Him: You know, you should really consider supporting local business. Without us, it would all die. The local farmers depend on us. 

As I begin to explain to him that I only go to Tesco's because of their cheap wine, but actually buy my meat and produce locally, he interrupts my excuses: 

Him: Would you like my milkman's information?

Me: I only drink raw milk.

This is an absolute lie and I'm still not quite sure why I blurted it out. I've bought raw milk once, and found it disgusting. The truth is, neither Daniel nor I drink milk. Honestly, our marriage depends on this one simple truth: neither of us ever, EVER goes near even a drop of milk. We really can't even think about milk without our stomachs exploding. Cheese and yoghurt we can handle. But milk? I can't even type that word any more without my tummy rumbling. But I couldn't tell the phantom top dweller this private information. He probably would have referred me to the local, small business witch doctor. 

I thought the conversation was odd, but didn't think much about it. 

The next day, I noticed that his milk bottles were no longer by our door, but on the steps leading to the main part of the house. I found it odd, but again, didn't think much about it. 

Until today. When I was greeted by this ray of sunshine. 

I am just in shock. In the past 8 months of living here, we have never even DREAMT of touching his milk. And let me tell you, I have wanted to. There have been times when full milk bottles have been sitting there for days. And during the warmer months, it gets smelly.

And I mean, really. All capital letters? It's like being yelled at. He literally yelled at me about touching "the" milk. I have never been so rudely accused of something that I am actually really proud of for never committing. And that passive aggressive "Thank you"? It just makes my blood boil.

Now, I really want to respond with this:

I DIDN'T TOUCH "THE" MILK. I DON'T WANT DIARRHEA. Thank you. 

but Daniel keeps telling me to ignore it. Just let it go. That note probably isn't to us, any ways. Because so many other people go through this secret door that ONLY leads to our flat.

Which now worryingly begs the question: If I didn't move the milk...then who did?