On the way to the airport at the start of our holiday, my wife and I experienced something unsettling: the train went right by our old house.
The railway bridge at the end of the road was only 50 metres from our old front door, but this was the first time I’d ever been on a train going over it: the line just didn’t go anywhere I needed to be. A blur of trees suddenly gave way to a panoramic view of our former neighbourhood, empty at that time of the morning, like a crane shot of a film set. Then it disappeared again.
“That was weird,” my wife said.
I nodded, and contemplated the back of my hands for a bit.
On the way back from our holiday, we go a different way; not on purpose – the most efficient route varies depending on the time of day – but it’s still a relief.
The new house is surprisingly tidy after an extended period under the oldest one’s stewardship, but the cupboards are bare and the rubbish has not been collected.
“I’ve put southern Italy’s complex recycling rules behind me,” I say, staring into the full bin. “Only to return to a regime that is just as alien, and possibly more onerous.”
“I’m going to my Sainsbury’s,” my wife says. By this she means that she is driving all the way back to where we used to live in order to shop.
“You need to break away,” I say.
“I can’t,” she says, grabbing a bagful of bags. “I’ll be hours.”
There is no shortage of supermarkets in our new neighbourhood; the nearest is a short walk away. There’s even a closer Sainsbury’s about a mile south, although I am boycotting it because the first time I went there I got stuck at the car park barrier on my way out, with a big queue behind me, unaware of the obligation to get your ticket stamped before exiting.
“Validated parking?” I shouted at the ticket machine. “This is Chiswick, not Beverly Hills!” Behind me, someone hooted.
Inevitably, my wife’s long-distance shopping expedition doesn’t quite address all our needs. The next day, she is compiling a list of things she forgot. “Light bulbs,” she says. “Loo paper, dishwasher tablets, more milk, supper.”
“Seriously, you can just go up there,” I say, pointing.
“This list is for you,” she says. “Go where you like.”
Although it’s my second visit, the strangeness of the local supermarket is still forbidding. The entrance has one of those slow-moving ramps that seizes your trolley with magnets, and leaves me blocking everyone’s path. Those in the know get their trollies inside.
The aisles are in a weird order. I can’t find the mustard, and I seem to be in everyone’s way, as if I am shopping upstream, against the natural run of things. At the top of one aisle, a man pauses to stare at me with a look that says: you are doing everything wrong. Then he comes closer.
“Are you Tim Dowling?” he asks. I pause to consider the possibility that he’s here to serve me with a subpoena.
“Yes,” I say.
“Welcome to Acton!” he says, smiling broadly.
Half an hour later, the middle one slopes into the kitchen while I’m unpacking the shopping.
“Food,” he says, peering into a bag.
“Your father’s thrilled,” my wife says. “Because he got recognised in Morrisons.”
“Not just recognised,” I say. “Welcomed.”
“Really?” the middle one says.
“In the end, it turned out we had a mutual friend, which sort of spoils the story,” I say, “because then it becomes more of a small world thing.”
“What is this weird mustard?” the middle one says.
“I guess I can just leave that bit out when I tell it,” I say.
“This is not the loo paper we buy,” my wife says.
“The kind we buy, they only had in beige,” I say.
“That’s why I have to go to my Sainsbury’s,” she says.
“You should come to Morrisons with me,” I say. “I’ll introduce you around.”
“Never,” she says.
