Covid is in it for the long haul, so we must learn to travel again

My beloved finds it characteristically ludicrous of me that the only moment I have appeared alarmed during the Covid crisis came when I collapsed into the sort of heap beloved of Chekhovian heroines, lamenting: “I just went to Victoria station and not one of its Pret a Mangers was open!”

Pret has been a stalwart of metropolitan living since opening its first shop in 1986. It prided itself on its urban clout, flourishing in the shadow of start-ups and skyscrapers, frequently boasting stores within walking distance of each other to prevent execs wasting time in queues.

Alas, with only a third of Britons back at their desks, this focus has proved its downfall: 30 of the chain’s 410 outlets are to close, jeopardising 1,000 jobs. Footfall is down at least 80 per cent. In July, one of those Victoria branches took £1,000 over a day, as opposed to the usual £6,000 precoronavirus – and this in Victoria, gateway to the south and home to the company’s headquarters, the lease for which is to be sold.

When the company’s chief executive announced its closures, he declared it “a sad day for the whole Pret family”, by which he meant me. I won’t go as far as to say that Pret is my life, but my life would be rubbish without it. Any dark mood, train journey or bout of period pain can be resolved by its egg sandwich.

I left Oxford in 1998, just as the city acquired its first branch. In London, I found streets paved not with gold, but with Prets: they saw me through my forays into office life. Pre-covid, haircuts were celebrated with cheese and pickle baguettes, nihilism with vegetable crisps, while slabs of salted chocolate saw me through my parents’ deaths. Non-urban dwellers may regard Pret’s chichi offerings with disdain. But I loved my stupid world. And I don’t want to inhabit a universe in which my ability to stroll into Zara brandishing a turmeric latte isn’t a basic human right.