‘You incompetent arsehole’ I internally address myself after shutting the door and realising I’d forgotten to shove a bag for life in my pocket like a crumpled handkerchief for my permitted daily outing for essential goods, previously known simply as trip to Co-Op for a box of filters and the cheapest loaf of bread left on the shelf. That was all before the unsolicited Corona-virus broke out quicker than my acne as a young fluffy-bollocked teenager. I could of course go back and retrieve a bag to avoid the inevitable juggling act that I would be forced to perform at the till when I refuse to part with yet another 10p out of principle, after all, I’d taken less than 8 steps from the front door but turning back would be accepting defeat to my own lack of preparation and inflate the chances of me stepping in the steaming hot shit the French Bordeaux in Flat 3 has made a habit of seasoning my doorstep with every morning.

After queuing outside for 25 minutes with nothing else to do but stare at my distorted reflection in a murky puddle and marinate in self-frustration, I was greeted at the sliding doors by the ever present security guard who was eating yet another packet of ready salted hula-hoops, a common spectacle when visiting the conveniently located but criminally overpriced food store; that man fucking loves baked potato starch. According to his custom he gestured that the store could accommodate me in line with social distancing measures, simultaneously he pulled down his face mask and rested it on his bristly pale wattle, I watched as he slipped a circular crisp onto each of his stubby fingers like brittle wedding rings only to hoover them into his mouth instantly and take them on a hyper-salivated oral cavity journey. Before I had even stepped foot in the store the entire 121 kcal packet had been engulfed. Assuming to only aid his digestive system he trudged around the lottery ticket stand a number of times whilst rubbing his salty mitts on his Gore-Tex trousers before disposing of his litter in the bin beside the ATM and out-of-date notice board. As he turned back to man his post we exchanged a friendly nod and I moved swiftly into the refrigerated aisle. 

Startled by the abrupt radio announcement of the food store’s daily jaw dropping offers, a frail lady who was clearly trying to fulfil her diary quota for the week after falling victim to the recent Actimel TV commercial claiming that probiotics ‘make you live a longer, happier life’ barged my ankles with her tartan sholley as I attempted to leapfrog onto the social distance guidance sticker marked out on floor beyond her. I immediately and involuntarily began to vomit an apology from a distance to quell any suspension of the 2 metre treason that had taken place. I’d seen uproar in recent weeks from similar situations as tensions rose amongst so much uncertainty owed to the Government’s abysmal handling of the pandemic and in my hungover state was not prepared for such a telling off from Mr Potato Head at the front door for my breach of conduct.

  

Judging the itinerary of my contemporaries' baskets is a habit I am yet to shake and Co-Op attracts a conveyor belt of distinctive characters at present. One being the 30-something year old with slick back hair and a popped belly who times his visit around 5pm week-daily on his fold-up city bike. He sports a pinstripe polyester suit with no tie and has 4 bottles of Shiraz and a large microwavable lasagne hugging his basket. I like to think he once had aspirations of becoming a well respected P.E Teacher at a slightly above average middle school but now finds himself working 60 hour weeks in an uninspiring call centre on the outskirts of the industrial estate. His job has somehow been classified as essential work so no furlough mentioned and his daily routine has seen little to no change, something for which he is undeniably and unmistakably resentful about. His uncouth mannerisms around the store suggest that a high volume of Australian wine and a ready made Italian staple presented in a flimsy plastic tray comes far cheaper than a divorce these days which leads me to spare a thought to his equally miserable wife, who at that moment in time was likely to be sitting by the front door eagerly awaiting his return, not out of yearn for her husband’s presence but to bear witness to his continuously poor and lacklustre choice in dinner as this was now, sadly, the most exciting and unpredictable part of her day since lock-down began.

Another being the pair of young women who glide into the store at 8am after their morning yoga session in repulsively positive and upbeat moods for the early hour. They can easily be identified by their matching eco-friendly-fruit-infused-save-the-turtles water bottles or overflowing hemp tote bags containing organic aubergines, red pepper hummus and Linda McCartney sausages. My guess being that during the lock-down they discovered Yotam Ottolenghi’s weekly column in the Guardian and now consider themselves woke in the fact they were the first to do so in their social circle. Since then both have insisted that before making the daily banana loaf to analyse on their joint youtube lifestyle channel they would knock up a Shakshuka every morning for their less than impressed flatmate, who was far happier with his Oat So Simple Porridge Sachets but now-with the recent announcement of an extended lock-down-feels obliged in joining them in documenting a knife piercing each egg yolk religiously on Instagram boomerangs in order to keep a harmonious household.

My timing of this particular trip was impeccable, after stuffing 2 vacuum-packed gnocchi under my left armpit I looked up to see an honourable Customer Team Member stacking the end fridge with items from the reduced trolley. This is indeed a very rare sight in any food store, let alone a Co-Op during lock-down. Being the first punter at a newly stocked reduction shelf can only be considered the planetary alignment of supermarket shopping. Yes, you can often pick up an item or two in the cut price culinary corner of the store, usually a precarious looking pastry or a total shipwreck of a salad, items of this nature are always there for the taking but to have a 2 metre perimeter around you to audit every shelf in search of the magic lamp of nourishment without gluttonous gallivanters swiping the triple cheese pasta bake or premium ricotta calzone you are yet to ponder is a moment of pure gaiety. Just to experience these imitable circumstances was enough, I settled for a beat up can of Carling and a dejected bag of vegetable stir fry that had to peeled off the jagged ice on the fridge’s back wall and made my way towards the plastic armoured tills to pay up and head home where I would resume my national duty of ‘staying alert’ and maybe watch Harriet and Megan's latest blog post on lock-down banana loafs if I run out of things to do.