Friday 27th March
Andree texts a short shopping list to me this morning, which includes bread and a cabbage. “What sort of cabbage?” “The football looking one!”. Since I have promised to collect a prescription for a neighbour this afternoon, I agree to shop this afternoon, popping into a Co-op close to the Narborough pharmacy. I can also buy fresh produce for another neighbour. Chantal dictates otherwise – she has a long shopping list, which must be purchased from Aldi, and anyway Andree’s bread must come from Aldi. At the pharmacy I am dismayed to see a queue snaking down the steps to the door and along the road, and the car park is full. I park two streets away and join the queue, reaching the pharmacy door after 20 minutes. The pharmacy “sales area” is separated from the outer door by plastic sheeting, creating a lobby. The pharmacist serves from a table in front of the sheet, going behind it to retrieve prescriptions. Despite being ordered last Monday “mine” is not yet ready for collection, and I am asked to wait outside while it is dispensed and packaged, joining several other people in the same situation. We all dodge and weave to maintain 2 metres separation as new customers enter, or are called in to collect drugs. After a further 20 minutes I am called to collect my package, and I drive 
to Aldi, 5 miles away. Another queue wraps around the car park, and as I approach the queue, I phone Chantal to ask how desperate she is for the items on the list. Apparently she needs them all. A man at the end of the queue is on the phone. “The queue stretches around the car park. How desperate are you for these things?” He also loses. The queue is shepherded off the car park for safety, doubling back along the front of the store, with the now familiar lines where folk have to queue, each 2 metres apart. In the process I realise that I do not have my list. My shopping bag reserves my place in the queue as I return to the car – no list. I call Chantal with a request to WhatsApp new lists. She takes it well. 20 minutes later I enter the store. 20 minutes seems to be the British Standard length for a queue of people each 2 metres apart. I am now shopping from four separate images of lists – Mum-in-Law, neighbour and Chantal parts 1 & 2. It is initially stressful, but with customers being “trickled in” 5 at a time, and most shelves full or being filled, the atmosphere was quite relaxed, with customers Do-Si-Do-ing around each other, barn-dance style, to maintain social distance. Like other men in the store I spend some time on the phone seeking clarification of details. I see just one couple are wearing masks, but by the time they reach the checkout, the masks are dangling beneath their chins. After 50 minutes I successfully emerge triumphant with almost everything on the lists. I have even located toilet rolls. I am so confident that I visit the nearby Co-op to mop up the missing items – just a 5-minute queue. Still no flour, but a friend has pointed out that bags can be ordered and collected from Claybrook Mill, just a few minutes away. Earlier in the day Steven visited another self-isolating neighbour to install a recently purchased “PVR” hard drive for her TV. She unlocks the front door and retreats to the kitchen while he sets up the technology. He now has to demonstrate how to operate the recorder – not possible when he is in the living room and Ann is self-isolating in the kitchen. Ann goes outside and the demonstration is done from the living room through closed patio doors to Ann outside. What odd times we live in.
Technically we live in Oaktree House, but sadly the tree had to go.
We now have a thriving Oakstump at the front of the house.
