The world is gone. The great works of man -- his presumptuous buildings and arrogant roads -- lie in utter devastation. All around, the people despair. You can see them there, in the background, just despairing it up. Those little brown shapes way back there, all lamenting and wailing and probably even forlorning (time permitting).
But you have to look pretty hard to see them beyond the immaculate white coat, ivory bottles, gentle smile and shining, pristine haircut of the milkman gingerly picking his way through the fucking Blitz. Look there, to his right:
See those guys? They're not just milling about. They're holding a hose between them, and that's steam shooting up from just off camera. Either those two are soldiers who've given up hope and figure they're going to die as they lived -- playing in a sprinkler -- or else those are firemen putting out the flames from the bombing raid that literally just happened. It's the latter, of course: This wreckage wasn't sitting there for days, giving the jaded milkman time to get over the destruction of society. The world blew up right in front of him, and he said "Pardon me" and politely stepped around the apocalypse, because somebody, somewhere, was about to open a box of cereal and he had a goddamn job to do.