Retail therapy? I’d rather stay home

THE STRANGEST sight of the week was the queue for Ikea, a shuffling line stretching backwards and forwards along the designated route as far as the eye could see. After 10 weeks in lockdown it appeared that the entire nation wanted nothing more than to go forth in the searing sunshine in search of storage solutions, drinking tumblers and a 100-pack of tea lights.

Admittedly Ikea has its uses. But I never actively want to go to Ikea.

In fact the whole idea of retail therapy has lost what charm it had if we have to trudge round shops following a series of arrows.

And when the non-essential shops open later this month it seems that if you don’t buy the shoes you try on then they’re put into quarantine until they go out of fashion.

The high street was in poor health before coronavirus. This could very well be its death sentence.

It’s the same with barbecues.“you can even have a barbecue,” said the Prime Minister as though he was bestowing the most wonderful treat on a grateful nation. Really – a barbecue? Must I?

I don’t like barbecues. Never have. We have kitchens with state-of-the-art appliances designed to make the preparation of food as easy as possible yet as soon as the weather perks up half the country is out with the tongs preparing carcinogenic

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THE Great Post Office Trial, just finished on BBC Radio 4, is a 10-part series on how the failures of a new IT accounting system led to postmasters across Britain being wrongly sacked and sometimes jailed for fraud and theft and facing a 10-year fight for justice. It has rightly been described as one of the biggest miscarriages of justice in UK legal history.

It’s shocking to hear how innocent men and women had their lives ruined.

It made me additionally sceptical about the NHS’S “world beating” Test and Trace system which was set up in a tearing hurry. Another ambitious IT project. Let’s hope it’s effective... but early reports are not encouraging. feasts. As everyone knows, the first miserable task is to clean the barbecue which involves an excavation of the remains of last summer’s repasts – a hideous black slurry of fatty soot and bits of chicken wing.

This means that the ritual known as “firing up the barbie” begins at least an hour later than it should, ensuring that by the time the first clammy banger is placed on the grill everyone is dead tired and three-quarters drunk.

I was going to say I’d almost rather join the queue of cars for a drive-thru Mcdonald’s. But scrap that thought at once. It’s another “freedom” I could happily live without.

What else can we do now? Oh yes, go to the beach, via traffic jams, packed car parks and sealed-up public lavatories. Then stake out a small area of sand, watching the poor kids trying to play with each other while keeping two metres apart. After that you poo in the bushes and leave all your litter behind when you make your way home. No wonder the locals would rather everyone stayed away.

All in all, I’m beginning to think that lockdown wasn’t so bad after all.