A Shopping Spree

Buying groceries at the Marlborough Road Tesco Superstore is like visiting someone in a high security prison during a period of particularly high tension. To begin with, you have to queue to get in; and it takes ages. And that just the start.

I don’t go often because I get impatient as I stand on my designates spot outside the doors with Eleanor, a perfectly delineated distance from our nearest neighbour. It’s just far enough for spittle to fall short, and close enough to converse by shouting. Mrs. Symonds is telling us, and everyone else within fifty metres, about her ‘problem. Apparently, it’s ‘down below’ so I try really hard not to listen.

I look around the car park. Even the cars are spaced out; none that I can see are closer than two spaces, except for Micky Edwards in his van, but then he’s got a brain smaller than a plum stone so I’m not surprised. There’s a north wind blowing straight from the arctic and he’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He also has a number of tattoos all on the theme of murder. Micky doesn’t feel the cold, but then, I doubt he feels much. Reptilian.

Mrs Mitchell has left Brutus, her bull terrier, tied to the bicycle rack. Brutus is bow-legged and ugly and, needless to say, there are no cycles parked beside him. Most of them are propped against the window, some distance away. One of the cyclists is two spaces behind us, in a cycle helmet, lycra and a mask. It’s not a fetching look.

Brutus is staring at me.

They say people sometimes look like their dogs. It’s certainly the case with Mrs Mitchell and Brutus, right down to the crushed face and bow-legs. Personally, I’d be all for getting a pretty dog with an appealing smile – just in case it’s true.

I give Brutus a hard stare back.

Another two customers and it’ll be our turn to go into the store. I watch a number of people who ignore the rules and just walk in. Mostly they’re elderly, or ill or look like they work somewhere stressful, but some of them look like they’re just sneaking through. I want to shout at them, but I don’t, just in case. You can’t always see someone’s disability, can you?

Micky Edwards tries to walk in, but the guy at the door is on to him and all Micky can do is swear a lot and stomp off to the back of the queue. I don’t look at him in case he kicks me on the way past.

Now it’s our turn and we step forward and, once again, I’m faced with the rule which says only one member of a family at a time, and I’m forced to stay outside. Eleanor gives me a sympathetic look and pats my shoulder. I’m tempted to protest, but what’s the point? You can’t beat officious shop-workers. They hold all the cards.

I give Eleanor a look. It means, Be quick. Please.

Standing out here makes you a target for every fool in the town. If they get eye contact, they walk towards you, hands outstretched, like zombies who feeds on conversation instead of blood. Social distancing? Not a bit of it. I turn my back and walk away as if I haven’t seen them, ignoring their approach and their greetings. Then I walk back when they’ve gone.

Then I wait.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes…. I’m bored. I yawn and sit down against a window frame. Twenty minutes. What’s she buying in there? Has she collapsed? Is she showing symptoms of the virus?

I peer through the window. No sign of her. I check the door as it opens and someone emerges. Not her. I walk up and down and repeat the process.

And I wait.

Just as I reach the limit of my tolerance, an unexpected opportunity arises. The guy at the door turns his back to me to talk to another guy who must work with him. A middle-aged woman with a gingham skirt and an imperious look approaches the doors, which open ceremoniously as if anticipating her. That’s my chance. It’s time to slip my leash, make a dash for it, dart inside, and find Eleanor. I’ll tell her to hurry up and get me out of here, because my stomach reliably informs me it’s time for a snack.

Five seconds later I’m inside and the search is on. I side-swerve a couple of customers and I’m making good progress down the vegetables aisle when I hear a shout. Damn. They’re on to me. A woman ahead of me pauses from filling a shelf with cauliflowers and broccoli, and turns. The has one of those fake smiles on her face, like she’s trying to convince me she’s a friend. She’s has her arms wide, a vain attempt to halt my progress.

Vain indeed. She is overweight and out of condition, and no match for a sleek master of the art of sudden acceleration. I pass her before she has time to scream. I’m laughing now as I sweep and swerve. Man, I’m flying. No-one can stop me. I turn sharply past the special offers and down the tinned goods aisle then, realising I’m heading towards the tills and the danger of more shop-workers, I accelerate and slip round the end of the aisle like I’m on fire. Now I’m heading towards the rice and macaroni.

I don’t see the old lady with the walking frame until it’s too late. Fortunately, there’s a guy two metres behind her scrutinising different varieties of pasta who leaps forward and supports her as she crumples towards the ground.

No harm done.

I pause briefly and note the look of horror on his face as he realises the extent of the crime he has committed, breaching, albeit with the best of intentions, the etiquette of social distancing. He steps back, mumbles something incoherent and, hands held out from his body, heads towards the nearest sink, soap and hot water. The old lady glances round at the horrified face of another customer and heads as quickly as age and infirmity will allow towards the hand sanitisers.

It’s getting difficult now. People are appearing from all over. Only the safe distancing rule prevents them from laying hands on me and bringing my glorious adventure to an ignominious conclusion. But two metres is more than enough for me and, in the next aisle, after a detour to savour the delicious aroma of the delicatessen, there she is – Eleanor.

She’s reaching up for a jar of decaffeinated coffee from the top shelf. It’s a moment for celebration and rejoicing. I race towards her and leap and emit all those sounds of delight which you associate with moments such as these. She turns towards me with a look of joyous amazement and (could it be?) horror on her face. Oh, the joy of a reunion after all this time apart!

Perhaps, with hindsight, that was the problem. Perhaps I under-estimate Eleanor’s capacity to stem the tide of my excited approach. I accept my share of the responsibility. It’s only fair that I should do so. I hope others will do the same.

Perhaps this is the moment for me to offer some supportive advice to those who design and stock supermarkets. I feel I am justified in saying that you take no account of the needs or habits of an excitable springer spaniel such as moi. It really should not be possible for what was a relatively minor leap to cause the domino effect which followed. Even the simplest of minds understands the importance of leaving a suitable gap so that tumbling items will meet a natural firebreak as they cascade towards each other. Also, coffee jars on the top shelf? Really? All that glass and powder? And your shelving should be sufficiently robust to withstand more than the mild earthquake created by my assault.

I would also humbly suggest that all staff in the Marlborough Road branch would benefit from a refresher course in Public Relations. I do think the screams and shouts and – I had to cover my ears with my paws – the abuse, was out of all proportion to the modest damage the incident caused. As for the solitary shopper who was too pre-occupied to notice the missiles heading towards him, I have little sympathy. He should take a leaf out of my book. A shimmy, a scurry, a leap – safe as the proverbial.

I mean, really, “Be Alert!” Is it so difficult to understand?

Nonetheless, being a dog of nobility and sensitivity, I apologise for my part in the incident. If you recall, my tail was well down between my legs as Eleanor led me back to the car and locked me in. It was an appropriate and dignified gesture, I thought. She barely spoke to me on the way home, which was disappointing and, in my view, largely unjustified, given the humility of my remorse. I hate to criticise someone to whom I am indebted for food and warmth and companionship, but even her welcome in the supermarket was at best lukewarm. After all my efforts, I expected more of her.

Perhaps she was feeling unwell. That would explain it. I did notice that she was a very strange colour when she clambered to her feet and brushed away the debris. Red and purple are not attractive skin tones, in my opinion.

By the time we reach home, I’m happy to report, she is restored to her normal healthy pink and, after a period of reflection and a healthy snack, (of which I participated), I even hear her laugh to herself. She laughs more and more as the day progresses.

In the afternoon, we go for a walk. I am happy to report it passes without incident.