Cared-for and Carer? Vaccinated
twice. I allow a period of grace to follow. It takes me two weeks to think
about going to town. I consider the situation. This is as safe as we’re going
to be. I plan…
First, I exercise on the torture implement.
I travel the distance to and from town. This doesn’t kill me. I step off the
torture implement.
Second. I remind myself that sturdy walks in
the park in winter didn’t kill me, either. And I walked further in the park
than I’d walk going to and from town.
Third. I choose the best time to go. Early.
When certain vital places are open. If I time things right, after I walk around
a bit, then other semi-vital places will open up as well.
Fourth. That was about choosing the best hour.
I must choose the best day.
Fifth. There’s equipment to consider. I make
sure the light jacket contains waterproof trousers. Where’s the backpack? No,
the larger one. I place the waterproof jacket there.
Sixth. I think it through. Arrive in time to
conduct early business. Buy a few items. Return home. Same routine as before. Before? But I haven’t walked to town in
over a year. Haven’t been on a bus in over a year. The closest I got to town
was being driven through it twice on the way to my Covid vaccinations. Two
trips by car, inside a year.
Seventh. I set the alarm the night before.
It’ll go off at 7.15. I’ll get ready, see what the weather is like, and dress
accordingly. No early morning coffee. I have a packet of mints to see me
through this journey.
Eighth. I wake at a little past seven,
before the alarm. It’s a real skill. Time for a lie-in. The clock beeps a
little later, and I start up. There is a slight chance that I’ll hop on a bus.
I throw a stash of coins into my pocket. Yes, I’m carrying banknotes. I expect
to pay by contactless card if I take a bus. But if the card fails me, I need a
solid backup.
Always
carry cash.
I lock the door behind me,
check it once to make sure the mechanism caught, and I walk down the path to
the street. In the past year, heading out, I’d turn right to pick up
prescriptions. Prescriptions are now delivered.
Turning left, I take the path to town. This
is like wandering through an apocalyptic landscape. Without the zombies.
There’s no one out here. The day is overcast. Warm. Threatening rain in the
clouds.
Five minutes in and I feel the strain in my
legs. I realise I am walking at a super-fast pace. Slow the fuck down. If you
keep this pace up, you’ll arrive in town before certain shops open. It’s around
7.30 in the morning.
What strikes me as different? Nothing,
sadly. The pavements are still shockingly weed-infested. Last year’s summer
weeds in the cracks, combined with frosty winter nights following rain,
combined to carve into the hard surfaces. This year’s weeds have taken
advantage of more cracks, deeper cracks…all the fissures, ravines, and yawning
crevices and crevasses.
The pavements are fucking shitty. Nearer
town, the state of the world improves. I’m finally out of the wilderness, here.
Still no one out there. I have a mask in my pocket. It is form-fitting, and
easy to breathe through.
Next
to that mask is a packet of masks that aren’t quite as good. If the mask slips
out of my pocket, or is shat upon by a seagull, I have spare supplies.
A distant figure walks by, down another
road. I am painfully aware of vehicles. The danger is not being hit by Covid,
but by a car. Traffic is light. Streets go by. Nothing much changes. There is
something nagging away at me, but I can’t place what it is. More on that,
later.
Having slowed my pace to a proper walk, I do
fine.
Then I near Proper Civilisation. The
Gleaming Spires. I’ve reached the future. It is early, so there’s not much
foot-traffic around a few shops. I stay on course. Okay, I could cross the
road. No. I’m fine. I see people here, there. No one is wearing a mask. And
that is okay.
There are isolated pockets of shops,
scattered across town. I spot a difference right here. Can’t work out what it
is. Then I realise a butcher’s is gone. The business changed, over the course
of the Covid year.
Narrow shop. Go in, work your way to the
back of the queue by squeezing past the queue. They’d have to switch to
one-customer-at-a-time, not having space to stand two metres apart. Easier to
shop in the supermarket. Space is king, in the Covid world.
Other factors must have been at play. But
any business operating on a knife-edge would be split along that edge by the
added pressure of the plague.
The shops fade into the background. Gradually,
people appear. This is more like a normal trip. Not quite. I see people on my
side of the street. Yes, I cross the road to avoid them. We pass each other
with a great distance between us. One person coughs as that happens. Okay, I am
vaccinated twice over. But still.
Fewer
weeds, closer to civilisation. Then, before you know it, I am in town. I
encounter the cult.
First, there is a grumpy Scotsman to not
deal with. I head to a close. (Pronounced with a soft s – doesn’t rhyme with rose.
It’s very Scottish. Very close.) A close is an alleyway. Very narrow.
I want to be careful here. There’s the cry
of a grumpy Scotsman on the other side, unseen. I slow. The grumpy Scotsman
emerges from the close. There’s plenty of space to avoid each other. We avoid
each other. I head through the close alone and free. Free to turn into the main
street and encounter the cult.
Everywhere I go, I see people in black
rectangular masks. I’m in the fucking Twilight
Zone now. What have I stumbled into? Normal shopping life, apparently. Soon
I’ll be indoors, so it’s time to reach for the mask. It isn’t black.
Later I learn these black masks are cheap,
widespread, and that’s why everyone is wearing them. Last year, masks were in short
supply. Overpriced. You had to hunt the mask in the wilds of online retail.
My mask is in my hand. I fit that and sweep
through the retail landscape. First, I make a small purchase that allows me to
walk away with change. What changed, in a year? Improvised distancing marks –
taped areas – those are gone. Companies stepped in and printed those markings.
Very professional.
All shops are now the Post Office. In other
words, look at all the bulletproof screens. Anti-disease screens. We can’t
sneeze over each other. Money changes hands through a hole in the see-through
wall. That’s when money changes hands. Contactless is handy.
There are professional signs up, asking
people to wear masks. Face-coverings.
My shopping experience – utterly normal.
Like going to a Post Office. I try a second shop. Must fill up my backpack.
Here, I expect a queue. There is a short one. But the woman will take me up at
the top of the queue. I negotiate as best I can by not going near the people at
the middle till.
Screen. Request for masks. Distancing signs on
the floor. I buy stuff and make change. Next, I try my luck in shop number
three. A large place. Mask requests. My mask stayed on all through my
shopping-spree.
In here, I encountered a woman without a mask.
She wore a badge to explain that she was exempt. In her defence, she looked the
worse-for wear with difficulty breathing. My guess – she was vaccinated. And
she relied on others wearing masks to increase her safety.
Also, there was the earliness of the hour.
She was getting her shopping in during a time of low foot-traffic.
Here, I don’t try to make change. I use
contactless payment. This is built for Covid, though everyone had to increase
the basic limit to make shopping easier during the plague. The big test is the
supermarket…
It isn’t much of a test. No one is on the
door, welcoming me. That was a measure from last year. People being counted in.
Counted out again. Marks on the floor? Professionally printed. The strictness
of the one-way system around the supermarket eased up, at some point.
Low customer count. No difficulties. I pick
up what I need. Some things are better bought in person. And then I am outside,
away from the shops. It rains. I can’t call it real rain.
The non-rain is barely worth bothering with.
I don’t take out my jacket. Something bothers me, and I don’t take in what that
is.
On my second trip into town,
I get it. It’s a time thing. If I head into town at a certain time on a
particular day, I encounter people coming the other way. Regulars. Not people I
know. But people I recognise, from the clash of routines.
Many of those people must have had routines
that changed across the Covid Year. A few regulars are still regulars, and it
takes until my return home on that second trip to see familiar faces. (I went
home a different way, the first time. Missed the regular people heading the
other way.)
Aaand…since then I’ve been to
town in the pouring rain. Which I loved. I was fully waterproofed. Humidity was
ridiculous, but breathable waterproofs helped significantly. There are fewer
people out there on the streets in the rain, and that helps.
A carer told me she’d been vaccinated – and
she caught Covid. Felt crap for three days. She’d have felt far worse,
otherwise. So the rain falls. Fewer people. Less chance of catching the
disease.
The future is here. Town is a thing, again.
And it needs to be weeded, in the outlying areas.
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