Jonny McCambridge: Open all hours? Not blooming likely

Until a couple of years ago my whole working life had been based around offices and morning and evening commutes through rush hour traffic. Now, the vast majority of my labour is undertaken at home. I have been known to get through whole working days in my kitchen without changing out of my pyjamas.

Advances in electronic communications mean that many events which previously would have required travel to attend, now can be participated in remotely. Zoom calls, once a mysterious unknown, are now treated as routine.

I found myself recently in the unusual (for me) environment of a bar. What was most striking was that the establishment encouraged all food and drink to be ordered on your mobile phone, and it was then delivered straight to the table.

While I was a little cowed by the technological challenge at first, I found that I soon got the hang of it. It meant I was able to enjoy the evening without having to leave the table (apart from my 17 visits to the toilet).

Shopping is another part of my life which altered due to circumstances outside of my control.

It is hard to remember now what retail was like during the early, panicked days of the Covid virus. Long queues snaked outside shops and I once got shouted at by a supermarket worker for failing to follow the one-way system correctly.

Many shelves were empty, and it was difficult to purchase dried pasta, flour, soap and toilet tissue (I watched countless apocalyptic disaster movies in my youth and none of them mentioned or prepared me for the toilet paper issue).

As a way to counter the increased demand and social distancing restrictions, some shops expanded their opening hours. My local supermarket started opening at 10am, rather than 1pm, on a Sunday.

This new situation suited me very well. I detest crowds in shops and being able to go early on a Sunday morning meant I was able to get the weekly shop done while the store was quiet and be back home in very little time. It also meant I could get the chore out of the way and still have the majority of the day clear to spend with my family.

Of course, the early pandemic alarm over the availability of provisions soon passed and habits quickly returned to normal. But the local supermarket kept its amended opening hours and it became my routine to go early every Sunday morning. I suppose I assumed that what had originated as an emergency measure had become permanent. And I was better off for it.

It is Sunday morning once again and I am strolling across the supermarket car park with my collection of bags for life. (I have always found ‘bag for life’ to be a curiously misleading title in that I lose them at regular intervals. I once bought a bag for life which ripped before I had left the shop.)

There is a small crowd at the large glass front doors. This causes me no alarm in that the shop is often a few minutes late in opening and people usually gather in advance, keen to get going. I select a trolley and join the queue.

Then I notice it. There is a white piece of paper stuck on the glass window which displays the opening times. It reads ‘Sunday 1pm–6pm’. The shop has reverted back to its previous hours of business.

I exhale deeply. I am primarily annoyed at the wasted journey, but more frustrated that a very convenient routine has now been discontinued.

A thought also flashes through my mind, an annoyance that I wasn’t told about the change. But then, such a development was hardly likely to be on the news, nor would a fireworks display or procession through the streets to advertise the switch in opening hours be appropriate.

It is what it is. I return the trolley and prepare to go home.

Then, an older woman approaches and speaks to me.

‘Are you not going in?’

‘The shop is closed,’ I respond. ‘It doesn’t open until one.’

‘No! No!’ she says, appearing to be in some distress.

I point out the sign in the window.

‘No! No!’ she says again.

I am unsure quite how to interact with this line of reasoning. Then, a younger woman approaches and challenges me, not without aggression.

‘It says on their website that it’s open; so, it’s open.’

I point her in the direction of the sign which, to be fair, is quite prominent and visible.

‘It says on their website that it’s open; so, it’s open,’ she repeats.

I feel under pressure now, as if the mob is turning on me as the bearer of terrible news. I could contradict her argument by pointing out that the doors are locked, and we are standing outside. Instead I shrug my shoulders.

However, her contention that the shop is indeed open is soon to be directly challenged.

I notice that a portly gentleman is walking across the car park towards the front doors. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that he is striding with great purpose. He seems oblivious to the small crowd of people standing there and walks straight past us, head down.

I see that he is not slowing down. I wonder if it is possible that this is because he is expecting the automatic sliding doors will open.

He keeps striding. If anything, his pace is picking up. I decide I had better warn him.

‘Excuse me…’

But it is too late. He walks straight into the door, his stomach bouncing off the glass. He steps back stunned and embarrassed, and looks around angrily, as if suggesting that somebody should have warned him. I cast a knowing glance at the young woman who said the shop was open.

Soon, a shop worker appears and explains to the crowd that the supermarket is indeed closed. She tells us that the store has reverted back to its pre-pandemic opening hours. There is a rumbling of discontent among the mob, although I am grateful that they have transferred their attention away from me.

‘No! No!’ the older woman says.

‘It says on your website that it’s open; so, it’s open,’ the younger woman says.

They begin to engage the shop worker in an argument. I decide that I’ll leave them to it. It’s time for me to go home.