I’m in the supermarket, without a list; it must have fallen out of my pocket. I’ve already gone back to search the car, and to chase a few bits of windblown paper across the car park. I am presently reliving the moment, just before I left the house, when my wife made me show her the list to prove I had it with me.
I ring her, but she doesn’t answer. I send her a text; she doesn’t reply. I ring my children in turn, oldest to youngest, but nobody picks up. “Why do we even have phones?” I say, out loud, into the phone.
I close my eyes to try to picture the list, but I only remember it being long and specific, as if it contained the ingredients for an untested recipe. I wasn’t really listening when my wife handed it over. In truth, I have no idea why I’ve been sent here. As I pace the aisles with nothing but an empty shopping bag in my trolley, I move from being angry with myself to being angry with everything. It feels like progress.
I ring my wife again. I send her an email that says, “ANSWER YR PHONE FFS.” I ring all my children again.
Eventually, the youngest one picks up. “Why do you keep ringing me?” he asks, sounding groggy and pissed off.
“Are you still in bed?” I say.
“What do you want?”
“Get Mum,” I say.
“Ugh,” he says. “Hang on.”
“Hurry up,” I say. “My phone’s running out.” For two minutes I hear nothing but footsteps, and the rustle of phone against cloth.
“She’s not here,” he says.
“How can she not be there?” I shout. “She was just there!”
“I dunno,” he says.
“Please get her to call me,” I say. I look up to find myself side-on in the bread aisle, oblivious and in the way.
I don’t hear from anyone. I contemplate the prospect of going home empty-handed, or of spending all day wandering these aisles. After 10 minutes I ring the youngest one again.
“I can’t find her,” he says.
“Is her car out front?” I say.
“Hang on,” he says. “Yes, it’s there.”
“If the car’s there, then she’s there,” I say.
“She isn’t,” he says.
I think about this for a while. “She must be at one of the neighbours,” I say. “Either next door or round the corner.”
“You can’t make me go looking for her,” he says.
“Just go into the garden and scream, ‘Mum’,” I say. “Everyone’s windows are open.”
“I’m not doing that,” he says.
“Make it sound as if you’ve hurt yourself,” I say.
“No,” he says.
“It’s an emergency!” I say. “I have no list!”
“Jesus Christ,” he says. My eye snags on something at the bottom of my shopping bag: a piece of paper, once folded in four, slowly opening like a flower. Along one edge, I see bit of my wife’s handwriting: “Cereal x 2”.
“OK, thank you,” I say.
“What?” says the youngest.
“Gotta go,” I say. “Bye.”
I shop quickly, hoping to finish before my wife rings, but the queues are long. I’m still waiting when the call comes.
“Yes?” she says.
“It was nothing,” I say. “I lost the list.”
“Shall I text it to you?” she says.
“No, I just guessed,” I say, deliberately discarding one of the two cereals to mimic the appropriate margin of error. “I think I got most of it.”
“I can easily text it to you,” she says.
“Too late,” I say. “I’m in the car.” I make a mental note to destroy the list, but I find it in my pocket two days later.
