Funny how I’ve spent most of lockdown dropping off the kids.
Outside number 30 and 43 to be precise.
No, this isn’t a post-COVID 19 IVF black market.
“Why’s it gotta be a black market. All markets matter!”
tweets the contrary prick who’s no longer my friend.
No, not IVF, but culture. Sourdough culture.
Door 30 left his out the fridge for too long.
Number 43 (the shielders) ruined theirs with heat.
Those two are an interesting lot.
I’ve never met them but have been their lifeline.
A crate of Stella in the first week.
A whole basket of Haribo Tangtastic the next.
I grinned and bared the ’essential items only’ checkout scorn.
Smug is the man with a neighbour’s diabetes diagnosis up his sleeve.
Oh, how the thank you messages flowed.
‘Thank you so much, you super star.’
‘You are the best! Thank you!’
‘We are going to throw you a night of coke and hookers!’
Genuine promise? Perhaps not, but the next one was.
‘If our adult AirBnB business survives (it’s a dungeon)
we’ll give you great rates on a stay. You’re gay and clean.
The straight guests leave the place rotton.’
Then the messages gradually slowed down.
Assume I distanced myself from then on, do you?
No, anyone can do what they want and besides,
it was a great excuse to get some fresh air.
The reason the errands became less frequent?
They were not actually even shielding!
I’d messaged them in aisle three one day.
Message read ticks? Yes. A reply? No.
‘I’ve now left’ avoided any late response and return.
Then there we all were.
Me marching back my beers and chocolate and pizza.
Them, stood outside the entrance, all masked up,
looking the other way like they didn’t see me or my Tesco bag swinging.
I could be wrong. It could have been some other couple.
Something terrible may have ended my errands to the shops for them.
But only a dungeon master wears boots like those.