Day 3 - Where the People Are

It would seem that we had gone from living like it was Christmas to extreme rationing OVERNIGHT! God help anyone who wandered into the vicinity of the toaster or kettle, as the bread and milk patrol was ever-present. We were all only permitted to make one piece of toast at a time and after having eaten it, to consider whether or not we really needed another (even though the self-appointed guardian of the breadbin was himself eating sandwiches like they were going out of fashion only the day before).  We were also asked to use half the amount of milk that we would normally use, when making tea or coffee.

     "I could always pop down to Tesco Express for milk," I innocently suggested.

      "Jesus, Daisy!" Anyone hearing the tone with which he responded, would be forgiven for thinking that I'd suggested bungee jumping off the Clifton Suspension Bridge or something.  "You're not seriously suggesting putting us all at risk just for a cappuccino are you?"

     "We are going to have to go out at some point, John.  You do know that, don't you?  There are NO slots for home delivery."

     He considered this for a few moments and then nodded seriously to himself.  "Ok," he eventually said.  "Write a list.  I'll go!" I noticed his chest puffing out a bit as he went off to get his jacket.

   

I was just finishing off sifting through my work emails, when I heard a desperate pounding on the back door.  "Who the hell ….?"

     I opened it to find John, carrier bags at his feet.  "Get the antibac wipes," he told me.

     "Why? What have you done?"

     "For the shopping.  I'll hand it to you, item by item and then you can wipe them down and wash your hands as quickly as you can.  Once they're in, I'll strip off and you can get these clothes onto a 90 degree wash."

     "What? Out there?  You're going to strip off in the driveway? Don't you think you gave Margaret and Gordon enough of a fright yesterday?"

     "There could be germs all over me, Daisy.  I've been in Tesco for God's sake.  Now, get the wipes!" He said the word Tesco with the same emphasis as if he was telling me that he'd just returned from a tour of duty in Iraq.

     I suppressed the swear words jumping about in my head, settling for an eye roll and sigh instead, reminding myself that he had at least done the shopping. My gratitude was short-lived however.  It dwindled with each new item that he handed over for decontamination:

•  McCain Smiley faces
•  mushroom and beetroot burgers 
•  tinned kidney beans
•  tinned chick peas
•  a small, pale cellophane-wrapped carcass, with a label on it saying that it was a poussin and that it cost £8.20 ffs!
• 2 packs of bagels (admittedly a few steps away from Cream Crackers, thank God!) 

  Thankfully, he hadn't dared to come home without the last 4 items on my list.       

   Actual list:

• potatoes
• minced beef
• carrots
• toilet paper
• bread
• milk
• cat food
• wine
• chocolate

Things had changed since I had been out into the world, he told me, once he was safely showered and in a clean set of clothing. 
     What? Since Monday? I didn't dare voice my doubt. 
     You had to queue 2 metres apart now, along the pavement, all the way past the bank, dodging anyone who came out of doorways. They had security guards watching your every move,  a one way system in operation once inside the store.  You had to have a plan now, a proper strategy.  Many of the shelves were stripped bare so you had to get what you could. If you missed your chance at something, you couldn't go back to get it.  There were markers on the floor at the checkouts, again 2 metres apart. The cashiers were imprisoned behind perspex.  So if I wanted to complain about what he'd bought, he told me,  I should at least be aware of all this.

     "Shit!" I said.  "I'm so sorry babe.  I'll get the chick peas started then, shall I?"

     Perhaps dirty dealings with trolleyboys was more imminent than I'd thought, I pondered as I reached for the tin opener. I suddenly found my mind drifting to what I'd seen yesterday.  Margaret's shameful secret, hidden away in the germ-free safety of her kitchen.  Her little stock-piling habit!

     I tucked the image away for future use.