Calendar An icon of a desk calendar. Cancel An icon of a circle with a diagonal line across. Caret An icon of a block arrow pointing to the right. Email An icon of a paper envelope. Facebook An icon of the Facebook "f" mark. Google An icon of the Google "G" mark. Linked In An icon of the Linked In "in" mark. Logout An icon representing logout. Profile An icon that resembles human head and shoulders. Telephone An icon of a traditional telephone receiver. Tick An icon of a tick mark. Is Public An icon of a human eye and eyelashes. Is Not Public An icon of a human eye and eyelashes with a diagonal line through it. Pause Icon A two-lined pause icon for stopping interactions. Quote Mark A opening quote mark. Quote Mark A closing quote mark. Arrow An icon of an arrow. Folder An icon of a paper folder. Breaking An icon of an exclamation mark on a circular background. Camera An icon of a digital camera. Caret An icon of a caret arrow. Clock An icon of a clock face. Close An icon of the an X shape. Close Icon An icon used to represent where to interact to collapse or dismiss a component Comment An icon of a speech bubble. Comments An icon of a speech bubble, denoting user comments. Comments An icon of a speech bubble, denoting user comments. Ellipsis An icon of 3 horizontal dots. Envelope An icon of a paper envelope. Facebook An icon of a facebook f logo. Camera An icon of a digital camera. Home An icon of a house. Instagram An icon of the Instagram logo. LinkedIn An icon of the LinkedIn logo. Magnifying Glass An icon of a magnifying glass. Search Icon A magnifying glass icon that is used to represent the function of searching. Menu An icon of 3 horizontal lines. Hamburger Menu Icon An icon used to represent a collapsed menu. Next An icon of an arrow pointing to the right. Notice An explanation mark centred inside a circle. Previous An icon of an arrow pointing to the left. Rating An icon of a star. Tag An icon of a tag. Twitter An icon of the Twitter logo. Video Camera An icon of a video camera shape. Speech Bubble Icon A icon displaying a speech bubble WhatsApp An icon of the WhatsApp logo. Information An icon of an information logo. Plus A mathematical 'plus' symbol. Duration An icon indicating Time. Success Tick An icon of a green tick. Success Tick Timeout An icon of a greyed out success tick. Loading Spinner An icon of a loading spinner. Facebook Messenger An icon of the facebook messenger app logo. Facebook An icon of a facebook f logo. Facebook Messenger An icon of the Twitter app logo. LinkedIn An icon of the LinkedIn logo. WhatsApp Messenger An icon of the Whatsapp messenger app logo. Email An icon of an mail envelope. Copy link A decentered black square over a white square.

David Knight: The number’s up for my chances of stocking up on wine

Post Thumbnail

I was in a long queue zig-zagging around a dark cavernous car park and as I edged forward an official told me: “You’re number 59.”

It seemed like I had drifted into one of my anxiety dreams again where I start searching for something and only end up farther away. Or that old cult TV series The Prisoner where lead character “Number Six”  keeps screeching in despair, “I am not a number!”

David Knight.

 

Or maybe a police state –  as we are now in danger of becoming, according to a former Supreme Court judge.

But it was none of these: I was content with being number 59 because it meant I was in the first tranche of customers allowed into a Tesco store early one morning.

It reminded me of airport security with barriers and channels corralling shoppers into a queue outside, but at least they seemed happy to welcome us – which doesn’t happen a lot when I go through airport security. The shop staff were a cheerful bunch doing a thankless and risky job, but were politely firm with  customers over social-distancing.

The man on the door told me I was next in. He said the maximum number of customers allowed inside at any one time was now 70. Bingo, I was 59. I felt a sense of achievement by making the cut.

We shoppers seemed to accept this extraordinary situation quite calmly; it was another item in a basketful of lifestyle shocks we carry around with us.

Many of us had heads bowed staring at mobile phones.  Mine read, “6° feels like 2°” in Aberdeen. I shivered as the queue stuttered along, but looked up as a kerfuffle broke out ahead. They were trying to take a trolley away from an old man in the queue.

He was having none of it: he clung onto it for dear life, as though he had been just thrown off the Titanic in a lifebelt. They shrugged their shoulders and let him have his way. We become very territorial at times of extreme panic, I suppose. But from a distance it seemed intrusive, so I asked one of the shop assistants what was going on.

It turned out that the old man picked a discarded trolley from somewhere else in the car park, but they were trying to persuade people to take them from near the door as they had been sanitised against coronavirus.

I watched as a lovely old couple next in the queue were split up – only one person per household was the rule.

As I exited later I saw two women who appeared to get away with queue jumping, so I denounced them like any good trainee informer. I approached the nearest member of staff, but for some reason I could not quite reach her. It dawned on me that she was going backwards in step with me going forwards. She put her hand up for me to stop – just in case I had the plague, I suppose.

“But I am 12 or 15 feet away,” I shouted in exasperation, so she would hear me.

That was more than the regulation two metres, but maybe she knew something which is just dawning on some scientists – that six feet might not be enough to prevent infection.

I registered my complaint, but she explained patiently  that the two women were staff reporting for duty. They actually deserved a clap of hands, I thought.

I tip-toed away sheepishly after my disastrous attempt to become an informer; what you see isn’t always what you think you saw.

In communist East Germany the terrifying Stasi secret police were reputed to have nearly 500,000 informers who spied on fellow citizens. But buying wine or Easter eggs in our locked-down state must not resemble trying to outrun the Stasi at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin.

I think the government was sloppy over its use of the phrases “essential shopping” or “basic necessities” in crisis advice. Surely it is the shopping journey itself which has to be essential when you are genuinely running low on supplies, for example, but not what you buy as it is so subjective. Once you are at the shop you can buy whatever they are selling, as long as you are not panic buying.

I’m glad Downing Street brought commonsense to bear by confirming that. I  feared arrest for buying wine.

There was alarm over some police officers and minor public officials putting their own spin on a regulation by deciding what it ought to be rather than what it was. People might rage, others  think they are isolated incidents – but they have to be challenged before they become endemic and routine.

Tougher lockdown rules make me nervous, but I can see the logic if people become complacent.

Back in the supermarket I was luxuriating in the space and comfort created  by restricted numbers of fellow shoppers. This is one rule which can stay after we are back to normal, I thought. But I couldn’t buy any red wine because I was too early for licensing rules.

Do you think I would be able make a return journey just for wine? Should I ask a police officer?


David Knight is the long-serving former deputy editor of the Press and Journal