Shop Talk

          At our local Tesco, there is a kind, attentive lady whose job it is to assist customers at the self-checkout. She has rescued me many times and, over the years, we have developed a friendly relationship that manifests itself in banal chit-chat. Once, I introduced her to my partner – who must have made quite an impression because, since then, she will sometimes enquire after her. “And how’s your good lady?” she will say. “Oh, fine. She’s loafing around at home, while I’m sent out to the shops,” I might reply. But events of the past few weeks have left the checkout lady increasingly fraught. It was never going to be easy for her to keep the regulation physical distance from customers. They marked spaces on the floor and put signs up everywhere; then they installed screens around the checkouts; and all the while she was increasingly apologetic for the inconvenience. Finally, they gave her a face-visor, behind which she looked quite mournful. “I’m not happy about it,” she said (lifting it to talk to me). “It doesn’t feel right.”

          This is the new normal – social and economic carnage. However, there are chances to enjoy unusual, even unique, moments in the midst of it. I experienced one yesterday, sitting, almost alone, in a city plaza bathed in sunshine, strewn with fallen blossom and quiet but for the mellow sound of a lone saxophonist blowing melancholy jazz. The music echoed around the buildings, interrupted only by the passing trams, empty but for their drivers. Ghost trams. The musician told me that the police had asked him to move on, lest he draw a crowd. But a passer-by had protested, saying that his music was a tonic, not a threat. Besides, jazz doesn’t draw crowds. She won her argument: it was the police who moved on.

          On my daily walks, the unnatural quiet of the streets draws attention to things that are otherwise unremarkable – like a seeming proliferation of roadworks, for example. Is the council taking advantage of the absence of traffic to bring forward its programme of repairs, or is the activity simply more noticeable than it would be under ‘normal’ traffic conditions? Whatever the answer, it is a good time to be fixing those potholes. One day, I encountered a friend who, like me, was out for his walk. We had our conversation across two metres of paving and he reminded me that it had been six weeks since we had been more comfortably situated, in a pub. It feels as if that was another era, for which I expressed a wistful longing. He recommended a couple of online beer suppliers but, you know, it’s not the same. Supping beer, alone, at home, is even more joyless than the solo, DIY coffee experience to which I am reduced these days.

          It’s those personal interactions, profound or otherwise, that are the missing ingredient in daily life. They make us feel we belong to society, that we have a place in which we feel comfortable, people to whom we can relate. A big chunk of that has disappeared. The few people you pass in the street avoid eye-contact as well as physical proximity. And facemasks conceal any subtle attempts to smile or look kindly on someone. The chances of having a casual conversation with anyone other than a shop worker are few and far between. But not everyone is down and out. I overheard a supermarket conversation that reassured me that there is humour in adversity. The man in front of me said to the cashier, “How are you? I haven’t seen you for a while.” “I’m fine,” replied the cashier, “I’ve just had a week off.” “Good for you. Did you go anywhere nice?” said the man, grinning.