I bombard my wife with questions when I go on solo shopping expeditions, but she is usually very patient.
It’s my annoying predilection to over-analyse, which triggers umpteen clarification calls to headquarters. “Did you mean the thin carrots with green foliage hanging out of one end, or the thick rough ones you have to scrape?”
It was my first call home again the other day and I could sense she was bemused. Through the muffling effect of the mask, I think she thought I was saying: “I can’t see past the shelves.” This was not as odd it sounds because we had a conversation the night before about getting our eyes tested again.
Anyway, it was not about me being unable to “see past the shelves”, and we managed to unravel our crossed wires. I wish I could remember what I did say because it was quite funny, but it will come to me later.
They were playing “Weather with You” as I pottered around fruit and veg – a classic singalong by Crowded House. It made me smile as I had got up before the crack of dawn to avoid any lockdown mania and it was freezing. It was two degrees below zero outside so I didn’t want to take the weather with me anywhere.
But I marvelled at the harsh beauty of the wintry scene as I arrived at the supermarket. A river valley nearby was shrouded in icy mist. It was as though nature had let out a huge gasp of air which turned to steam in the cold air.
I was virtually all alone in this cavernous place, apart from another older gentleman also in a flat cap; he was trying to pay for a large bag of salt which must have weighed 15 kilos. It caused a flurry among checkout staff who moved in politely, but swiftly, to confiscate it. Apparently he had picked it up from the entrance where it was meant for the sole use of staff keeping the car park clear of ice.
There was a small army of staff rushing about with special trollies, each laden with shopping containers for online orders. I thought this might be a nice part-time job, as I like wandering around looking at food and drink. So I fell into conversation with a couple of these trolley-dash professionals. Well, you couldn’t really call it a conversation as they were in such a rush.
It was an eye-opener: one said she had 178 items to collect in an hour. It was monitored; she didn’t say what would happen if the target was missed. Another said they could fill up to 30 of these trollies in a shift, which by my reckoning is 180 food boxes.
I take my hat off to food retail staff who battled on in the pandemic. They were plunged into the frontline as the virus engulfed us, but there was no PPE at first or staying home for them. Even now they are surrounded by the great unwashed all day who could be carrying anything. Retail staff are poor relations in the bigger family of essential workers.
All the praise is naturally lavished on NHS staff in life or death situations. But while hospitals are full of Covid-19 patients, countless others with potential life-threatening non-Covid conditions are forced onto grotesque NHS waiting lists.
Teachers and nursery workers are making a lot of noise, with demands for them to be made priority for vaccines even although it is far more sensible to vaccinate by vulnerable age and health groups than professions. Teachers have hardly been at school for the past year anyway and the health secretary in England tells us they are at no greater risk than any other profession.
I have a great idea: vaccinate teachers after all – but only those over 70.
My vote goes to food retail workers who should receive greater recognition. And special thanks to one named Frances, who found sesame oil for me the other day. I could have been stuck there for a week if she had not shown pity.
I remember now what I said when I confused my wife with something like: “I can’t see past the shelves”. I actually said: “I can’t see pasta shells.”
They were out of them, as it happened; I bought spaghetti instead.
David Knight is the long-serving former deputy editor of the Press and Journal
