I remember when I was a little kid at school, we used to have to drink this small bottle of milk every day for morning tea.
I used to hate it. 
No flavorings back then. Just plain old milk.
The short squat bottles of milk used to sit in these brown plastic cartons all stacked up outside the classrooms.
Each morning we would hear the delivery man’s trolley clinking tall stacks of milk-bottles past the classroom window. Often they would be left to ferment in the sun for several hours before we would drink them. 
Unless your parents gave a medical reason, drinking the milk was compulsory.

Come morning tea time, we used to have to sit around in a circle on the linoleum floor and peel the gold metal tops off the milk which we would throw in an empty ice-cream container that sat in the middle.
I used to hate the smell of the warm milk and the way it would be slightly curdled on the top.
 Some kids loved it. I was not one of them.
If you could get the gold top off without tearing it (no easy feat), you could cross your first and second fingers and snug the lip of the bottle-top between them…by flicking your fingers apart, you could send a tiny gold frisbee across the room.

Apart from the brief disruptive distraction of having to dodge oncoming swarms of flying disks, whilst trying to hit Kenneth Murphy in the eye with my own (I hated Kenneth Murphy ‘cause he had these school shoes with cool animal paw prints on the soles and a hidden compass in the heel, and I didn’t), apart from that, it was horrid. I would try and skull the milk down as fast as I could so as not to taste the warm milky sputum. This would always be followed by a large milky burp that filled my mouth and nose with promise of impending spew.

One day I came up with this great plan. 
Each morning our family used to get a wire basket of 3 milk-bottles delivered to our front door step. If we had not consumed the previous days delivery, my mum used to leave a note for the milkman: No Milk Today Please. Handwritten on a small piece of paper.

Pinching the note, I carefully smoothed out the creases and placed it in the most official looking envelope I could find on my dads desk.
I then took this in to school and passing the envelope to my teacher, explained that it was a message from my parents.
 Genius.
It actually worked for about 3 days.
 As punishment, I had to sit in the middle of the circle next to the ice-cream container ( this was the bad place) and drink 2 bottles of milk each day for a week.
I think all this probably explains why I have turned out the way I have.