Diary of a Shopkeeper, 10th May
Later that day…
The weekend is a mythical creature for the shopkeeper, much talked about, but rarely if ever encountered. Saturday is the busiest day of the week in most shops, and the idea of taking it off, and Sunday too, is fantastical.
But these are fantastical times. So for nearly two months we have scheduled our deliveries for Monday to Friday, and spent the weekend at home or in the garden.
In this quiet corner of the west mainland, walkers, joggers and cyclists have burst onto the backroads like never before. Formula 1 racing drivers have also appeared in great numbers, but luckily the windless weather means the walkers can hear them coming a mile off, and jump into the ditch to avoid getting mowed down.
On a very still and sunny afternoon lately, I was staring at a weed and wondering what to do about it, when a more welcome sound came up the road towards me. Conversation, or rather, monologue, in the familiar voice of our near neighbour Willie Pickle.
I peered over the fence. Coming up the brae were Willie Pickle in full flow, his teenage daughter looking pale and bored, and his eight-year-old son in a Batman costume. They were six feet apart from each other, strung out down the middle of the road: not so much for social distancing as because the girl was bored with her dad and the boy was fed up of his sister. Bringing up the rear of the parade were Willie’s Labrador, panting in the heat, a black cat, tail in the air like an aerial, and a plump brown hen pecking from verge to verge.
“When the hot air balloon came down over the north pole, it was a rude awakening,” Willie Pickle was saying. “And I mean that literally – I was sound asleep at the time. Ha! That Norwegian navigator has a lot to answer for.”
“Aye aye, Wilie,” I called out. “Hello everybody.”
“Good day sir,” he cried back, raising his left hand high to pause the procession. “We’re taking our Nicola-sanctioned constitutional, meanwhile reminiscing about days when more distant travels were possible.”
“It’s good we’ve got those memories,” I said. “Seems like we won’t be going anywhere much for a while.”
“For Number One Child it was pleasant memories of District 12 and its Quarter Quell,” he said, indicating two metres downhill. “For Number Two Child, Gotham City is the happy place. Though I can’t think it’s too cheery at the moment – all those bats flying around!”
“And what about yourself, Willie? Where do you want to get back to?”
“Simple,” he said. “I just want to get back to normal.”
And with that he lowered his arm and pointed straight ahead. The procession stepped off once again, past the house and towards the head of the brae. The dog panted dutifully on, the cat stared disdainfully at me as it stalked by, and the hen was nowhere to be seen.
Willie’s voice drifted through the afternoon heat, even as he disappeared over the blind summit: “…best bar in Baffin Island…precious little sleep for three weeks…just like that: married again…”
I stepped round the end of the fence and watched them go. Soon it was as if they had never been. Except… There was something lying in the middle of the road directly opposite the house. I took a closer look.
A big, brown, freshly laid egg.
This diary appeared in The Orcadian on 14th May Other diaries will appear weekly as long as the Covid-19 crisis goes on. I intend to post them in this blog a few days after each newspaper appearance, with added illustrations.