I'm not very good at panic buying — a relaxed person, no stress. Don't know what to panic buy, empty shelves slowly becoming a list of panic buy essentials: pasta, toilet rolls, it was soon obvious but of course too late.
I should have been an expert panic buyer, I had a chance to learn from the best. My nan who was born into World War Two, whose formative years were set around rationing.
The cupboard. A Narnia-esque adventure through tinned corned beef and chicken soup — the latter of which would nurse me back to health when I was sick.
The enemy of such preparedness; the best before date. She'd be indignant that the obviously high quality food from the swanky supermarket could betray her preparedness.
Hams of various hues, bread framed with furry corners.
“Nan, sorry, this is off.” “Oh it shouldn't be… it's M&S…” her working class background attributing higher prices to higher quality, seemingly believing that M&S had found a way to defy decomposition and for a premium of only 40 pence more than Asda.
Our local M&S was late to the panic buying party, probably as part of a big shopping centre it's trickier to navigate by car — an essential tool for the serious panic buyers. But visiting on the cusp of the lockdown I found the shelves bare and the staff broken.
Wandering the aisles trying to collect anything that might feasibly go together into some sort of coherent meal.
Another man navigating the aisles with his equally empty basket makes eye contact, we share a despondent shrug. “Miserable innit, but at least there's bacon!”
The world looks like a very different place now. Many families have lost loved ones. Many people falling through the cracks of government schemes are facing poverty.
There's endless worry and confusion.
No end in sight.
But at least there's bacon.