When You Hear The Beep

It’s now a sad fact of pandemic life that one of the most exciting plans in my weekly calendar is a trip to my local supermarket. For the first time since the age of – what, 5? – those automatic doors mark the entrance to a place of wonder and excitement. As a toddler, this involved seeing how many illicit treats I could transfer, ninja-style, from shelf to trolley without my mum noticing. Now, it’s seeing other real-life humans, un-pixelated, in the flesh, and having a thrilling five minute chat with Claire on Checkout 3.

As I walk in, hands still stinging from the sanitiser, I feel a sense of freedom that lockdown has long been holding hostage. The horrible strip lighting that once felt oppressive, hits me now like the first rays of sun on a spring morning. Even the ridiculously early Easter display that I nearly trip over is a welcome sight. Anything that keeps us looking forward to the hopeful lifting of restrictions is currently golden. And, in the meantime, it allows for some guilt-free purchasing of treats to take back to our lockdown lairs.

Wandering down the first couple of aisles, I feel as though I’ve been unknowingly entered into the world’s toughest obstacle course. With online shoppers’ superior three-storey trolleys scattered across the aisle, and masked strangers giving me keep-your-distance eyes, I begin to slalom my way to the cheese. When I get there, I’m momentarily stalled. Making long, protracted – is this flirting? – eye contact with the handsome stranger hovering the other side of the cheddar, I soon realise they’re just waiting for me to move so that they can safely pick up some Cathedral City without breaking social distance. (Other brands of cheese are available).

Half an hour and a lot of trolley manoeuvring later, I wind up in the alcohol aisle. A combination of tinny overhead music, slightly sticky floors and a blinking light leave me weirdly reminiscing about long-lost nights out. I snap right back out of my reverie when I realise there’s now a queue behind me waiting patiently to reach the Pinot. Dry January is a distant memory.

By the time I reach the checkout, my trolley is sky high. Many items I didn’t even know I needed. I try not to overwhelm the till assistant with conversation, in case she realises this is my first time speaking to someone other than my parents in a week and feels sorry for me. Whipping out my loyalty card, I successfully give off the illusion of having my shit together. ‘You’ve saved a total of £2.37’ – a small win, but I’ll take it.

Walking towards the exit, I take one last glance back at this hive of human activity (and take another pump of sanitiser for good luck). As I hobble over to the bus stop, bags hanging off of every available limb, I get the horrible feeling I might have forgotten something… Bread! I needed bread.

Featured Image by Mehrad Vosoughi on Unsplash