Social Isolation Worker

As the United Kingdom entered its fifth week of Covid-19 related lockdown, Milkman was going stir crazy. True, he was able to go out and deliver milk to the good burghs of Acomb, but there was a clear ban on extra-curricular activities. The riot van full of very angry rozzers he encountered on the first week of lockdown made that exceedingly clear; and he still had the missing teeth to prove it.
    With masked vigilantism frowned upon by the authorities at all times, but especially in times of near-quarantine, Milkman was spending most of his time in the lair he referred to as The Dairy. In point of fact this was a cold-room made out of two lock-up prefab garages, but it was a lair to him. The problem was he was on his own. Paperboy was in lockdown at his mum’s house, and Paperboy’s mum gave Milkman the creeps. So here he languished, surrounded by thirty gallons of pasteurised cow-juice, at temperatures barely above freezing, bored out of his tiny little mind.
    This endless train of self-indulgence was interrupted by a loud and persistent hammering on the garage doors. This perked Milkman up: maybe Shop-Girl had finally come around to him and they could fulfil his long-held desire of making out licky-style on top of a massive pile of Farmhouse Butter. Cramming down the inkling that maybe he had some serious problems, Milkman pole-vaulted over to the doors in excitement and flung them open with a strength only those that haven’t had it in months will understand.
    ‘Shop-Girl, my darling, I knew you would finally – oh it’s you,’ he said, disappointment edging into his voice in the same way that Germany edged into Poland in 1939.
    On the other side of the door was Milkman’s social worker. He had been appointed a social worker when the Ford Transit full of North Yorkshire Constabulary’s finest had kicked the ever-loving shite out of him a few weeks earlier. The man only knew his civilian identity of Jim Heckinthwaite, so Milkman quickly whipped the mask off. Like it made a difference.
    ‘Morning, Jim,’ the Social Worker said, his left eye twitching in a rather disturbing manner. This was a new development, as was his outfit. Milkman was no expert in the field, but he was almost certain that this wasn’t how the average social worker dressed. The Bren gun was an unusual touch for starters.
    ‘Cup of tea, Frank?’ Milkman ventured. ‘Got a new kettle just before lockdown and it hasn’t electrocuted me once.’
    ‘No tea,’ the Social Worker spat, the nervous twitch working his left eye like it was on a string. ‘You’ve been out again haven’t you?’
    ‘Sort of my day job,’ Milkman grumbled. ‘Don’t want this lot going sour.’
    ‘Supposed to be lock-down,’ the Social Worker grunted in a manner that would send sane people running for cover. ‘Shouldn’t be going out. I shouldn’t be going out but got jobs to do to stop you going out and infecting everybody with manky coronavirus!’

The recoil of a .303 rifle cartridge is pretty severe, to the point that World War 2 soldiers using the compact Lee-Enfield ‘jungle’ rifle frequently complained about its recoil and muzzle blast. Loosing them off at a rate of fire of 500 rounds per minute is enough to put any unsuspecting user on their arse. This is the only thing that saved Milkman’s life when the Social Worker opened up with his Bren gun on fully automatic. Apart from deafening the pair of them, this action merely perforated The Dairy’s roof and sent the Social Worker arse over apex.
    ‘What the bloody hell was that, Fred?!’ Milkman bellowed at the Social Worker, over the sound of his own tinnitus.
    ‘Got to stop manky coronavirus spreading,’ the Social Worker continued to mutter as he reloaded the Bren.
    It was at times like this that the very mettle of humans is tested. Now was the moment, where Milkman could step forth and earn that greatest of accolades: he could truly earn the title of being A Yorkshireman.
    And so it’s hardly surprising that he leaped aboard the Milk Float and buggered off as fast as its superannuated electric motor could manage. He was immediately stopped by the presence of the garage doors, since when your primary mode of transport weighs as much as a cardboard box and can only manage a top speed of 20mph on a good downhill run in favourable winds, ramming through anything is a non-starter.
    ‘Look, Brian,’ Milkman said to the Social Worker as he tried to get the doors open, ‘this is something you probably need to talk to HR about. You can borrow my landline if you need to give ’em a ring! I’m just gonna go out... for... essentials. Yeah.’
    ‘NO NONESSENTIAL TRAVEL!’ the Social Worker bellowed as he finally got the gun reloaded.
    ‘Pretty sure this is essential, Geoff,’ Milkman said, abandoning the Milk Float and knifing it off down Thanet Road faster than a priest leaving a brothel. Hot copper-coated lead whistled past his ears as the Social Worker once again failed to compensate for the Bren’s brutal recoil.
    ‘Hold still you germ-riddled milksop!’ the Social Worker yelled, trying to get a third magazine into the weapon.
    ‘That’s Milkman I’ll have you know, Bob, you great pillock!’ Milkman yelled, determined to get at least one insult in before the Social Worker figured out how to aim his Bren. Praying for divine intervention, Milkman was desperate for some poorly-thought-out and utterly confused deus ex machina of the type put together by a stir-crazy author on lockdown that hasn’t seen the inside of a pub in so long he has forgotten what they look like.

So with an electrical sizzle, celebrated York superheroine Girl Awesome descended from the skies. This ruckus had caught the attention of her secret identity, Claire Wrigglesworth from the off-licence on Gale Lane. The fact that Milkman referred to Claire as Shop-Girl when trying to get into her knickers was a source of never-ending frustration for her.
    ‘Okay numbnuts,’ Girl Awesome said to the Social Worker, ‘put down the museum piece and stop tryin’ to shoot this poor idiot willya?’
    ‘More dirty virus-riddled lickspittles!’ the Social Worker screeched, raising the Bren to Girl Awesome. With a sigh she extended her hands and zapped him with enough electricity to power a small town.
    ‘Is he dead?’ Milkman asked, apparently not worrying about social distancing.
    ‘Keep your distance, 2 metre separation!’ Girl Awesome warned him, her hands still crackling with power like some sort of germaphobic Sith Lord. ‘But no, I just laid him out. He’ll have a killer headache and curly hair for a while but nothing permanent.’
    ‘Shame,’ Milkman said, ‘Would have made a great end to the story. Wonder what made him snap?’
    ‘Meh, I’ve seen this a lot this week,’ Girl Awesome said with a shrug. ‘This is what happens when you listen to that orange blob in America and start injecting Dettol.’

Once again, who says we can’t be topical in these stories?