The Moniack Mhor writers group, led by Cynthia Rogerson, has been meeting remotely during the Lockdown. They have been writing pieces inspired by the situation. This is the second of two pieces by Martin Russell . We’ll be presenting more as we go on. If you think you have anything to contribute (500-700 words) please let us know.
When I wake at the back of seven, the sun is shining through my curtains. Since the pandemic started, it seems to do this a lot. I don’t like it. I’d prefer gloomy weather, to go with the prevailing mood. Some time between now and about 8:35, I have to put the bastarding bins out. The reason I have to put the bastarding bins out is that no-one else ever does it. The reason no-one else does it is that I have been doing it for the past seven years. It is a hole that I have dug myself into.
I don’t mind really, it’s part of my way of preserving order in our social housing cul-de-sac. I only get annoyed about it if someone decides to have a conversation with me while I am doing it. I can come over all resentful when a smiling neighbour decides to watch on. This early there is nobody else there. Across the road a blue bin has blown over. I don my work gloves and tidy up the stuff that has blown about. I don’t have to do this, but I hate seeing a mess. I pull our blue bins up to the pavement. I leave a gap and pull up my near neighbours’ bins. All neat in a row, plus my grey food caddy.
When I go out at noon, my first stop is at the bottle bank where I deposit my empties. Thank goodness there is no-one about. (‘That must have been a good party!’) Once in the town centre, I pull into the half empty Tesco car park, but decide first to walk to Boots. There is a bit of a wind, so passing other stragglers is not anxiety inducing, and there are few people about. The pedestrian precinct is eerily empty. Two of the banks have security guards at their doors. Bank bouncers: that’s a first. (‘You cannae go in there wearing those trainers.’)
Boots is like a ghost shop. No glammy make up assistants, nobody jamming up the aisles. When I reach the pharmacy counter, my heart sinks a little; the man who never knows where anything is, is there. But then a bright looking woman tells me she will be right with me. Relief. They have transparent plastic screens up with a gap underneath to talk through. ‘Two day returns to Mount Florida,’ I think of saying, but don’t. The bright looking woman locates my medicine in a jiffy, and I am released back into the wild.
In Tesco, two young male workers stand gassing at the end of an aisle. I envision all the water vapour they must be releasing into the air. I hurry past holding my breath. It must be something about young guys, as another one flits across my bow. When it happens a third time I decide to pull my bandana up, which is difficult as I’ve tied it too tightly. But I do feel more secure with it on.
My shock at the checkout is that I’m only allowed three alcoholic items, so two of my beer choices have to go. So you can buy three bottles of whisky, or three bottles of beer! This is ridiculous; this is a very bad rule. So I drop in at our local Spar store on the way home. They have no restrictions on how much alcohol you can buy. I go for two bottles of ‘Hurricane Jack,’ and two of the Cromarty Brewery’s ‘Kowabunga,’ which is a nice, zesty brew. I get served by the same woman as the last time. ‘Sorry about the bandana,’ I say. ‘I am smiling.’
‘No, you are quite right,’ she answers. She said that the last time too, but she sounds just as sincere. ‘You are protecting yourself,’ she says.
‘And, other people, I hope.’ I say this because I don’t want it to seem as if I am just looking after myself. I like this woman. She has managed to make me feel good, two visits in a row. There’s something sympatico about her manner. It’s amazing what a little act of kindness does for you in these strange times.
Views/opinions expressed are the author’s own and do not represent those of any individual from Moniack Mhor or Moniack Mhor itself. Copyright remains with the author.