Aisle Number One

          I was crossing the carpark on my way into the supermarket when a woman emerged from a car, looked at me and said, “I was having trouble seeing the lines.” Apparently, she was embarrassed by her inept parking. As if I had even noticed! Still, I smiled and responded, “Yes, it’s time they were repainted. But there’s plenty of space, it’s not busy this early.” “I know,” she said as we walked through the door in sync. “That’s why I’ve come now. I have to go into town after.” She was, I guess, in her early seventies and had a purposeful set to her petite frame. I complimented her, jokingly, on her efficient time-management. She didn’t smile, but continued to outline the rest of her day, regardless of our being strangers to each other. I know that routines and goals, however trivial they may appear, do play a part in maintaining good health, physically and mentally. Perhaps that was how she kept things together, I thought.

          My own resilience in this respect has been tested these past couple of weeks, one of which was spent looking after three dogs at the house of relatives, the other spent entertaining visitors back at home. Although my habitual routines were thereby disrupted, I cannot claim to have suffered unduly – painful as it was to have been  obliged to make conversation over breakfast. Nevertheless, I missed the rhythms of my preferred lifestyle and, now that I have settled back into them, I feel more at ease. None of which is to deny the advantages of disruption – the stimulant of company and the refreshing of perspectives discovered in unfamiliar places or situations. In the end, however, it’s the certainty of a controlled environment and a constant companion that gives me comfort.

          But I haven’t finished with the woman at the supermarket. As we arrived at the fruit aisle, I feigned an interest in the bananas, thinking she might take the hint that we both had errands to fulfil. Instead, she began a new topic of conversation, her penchant for coastal hiking – something we both share, as it happens. However, it wasn’t conversation she wanted, just a sympathetic ear, so I listened patiently to descriptions of her favourite stretches of the Cornish coast, while using my body language to move us along, hoping that she would remember the urgency of her mission to get into town. But we had only progressed as far as the nectarines when she announced that she was going to show me some photos of the stretch from Polperro to St. Ives.

          She fished out her phone and there was that awkward couple of minutes while I waited for her to locate the pics, during which time I averted my eyes from her screen, as per newly-established social conventions. And, with nothing to do but contemplate the nectarines, I remembered the last time I had tried one from there, about four years ago: it was tough as a turnip and less flavoursome. When she eventually found them, her photos were embedded in a chain of WhatsApp messages, a sort of travelogue, that she had sent to her son. As I admired the shots – all strips of blue, green and yellow, the coast on a sunny day – it became apparent that she hiked alone. Not that she expressed loneliness, either in words or demeanour but, after we parted company (by the melons) with the usual, “must be getting on, nice to talk to you” etc., it occurred to me that what she was really doing was keeping herself busy, filling her days with whatever it took to give them meaning.