Uncle Pelfrey is an entirely fictitious character who occasionally stalks through T's writing. Created by his younger brother, he is an archetypal kiddie-diddler. By wriggling your fingers a bit like the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and repeating the words 'Uncle Pelfrey' in a really creepy high voice you can reduce your siblings to squealing terror.
..."Paging Dr Freud"...
Though New York is comprised of five boroughs it is well known that nothing of any interest happens outside the borough of Manhattan*. In fact those living in Manhattan oft refer to the outer boroughs as being overseas, since you need to cross a bridge to get to them. Which is fine.
The Upper West Side does what it says on the jacket, though it is in fact only half way up the actual island that is Manhattan. But of course above the UWS is Harlem and somehow we doubt that those who named the UWS included Harlem in their version of New York.
*See also North of the river in London.
It is a strange quirk of English life that it is possible to have milk delivered to ones house. It is left on the doorstep each morning by a uniformed employee of the dairy who, in popular folklore, is at it like a weasel with every bored housewife on his rounds rounds and (possibly in consequence) is always cheery. (Ours was a misanthropic pederast with terminal haliotosis, but I digress).
Unigate was a large National dairy.
Why milk, you might reasonably ask?
Because we are British, we reply.
We could have had wine, fine cheeses, fresh and crusty bread, great foaming steins of ale, cigars or high quality pornography - it's not beyond the wit of man - but no... we got milk.
Sadly the Milkman is no more in most of the UK. They probably couldn't find anyone willing to get up at 4 am and live up to the expectation of being cheery satyr.
Pizzas, I understand, can be delivered.
I wonder what they are.