Day 15

Saturday, April 4: It takes me about 30 minutes to buy an iceberg lettuce at my local greengrocer. Half of Hamilton seems to have cottoned on to the shop being open and there are long queues. And, of course, a strict one-in-one-out policy. Is it worth the wait? Answer: I’ve have nothing more pressing to do than buy a lettuce.

The iceberg is a thing of robust beauty, and I strip the outer leaves for the worm farm. Wash everything thoroughly, the lettuce, tomatoes, spring onions and leeks, all tucked into my turquoise-and-grey backpack.

I bought the pack to take to Italy a few years ago. It made the trip twice, and it’s also had several outings to Rarotonga. The holdall for a previous travelling life: iPad,  pashmina, glasses, phone, passport, wallet, water bottle. Now it’s my lockdown shopping bag for the five minute walk to Claudelands village.

Richard and daughter-in-law Sonya are playing “the kids are the parents” today in their bubble with Henry and Libby. The parents are liberal and the kids scoff chocolate before lunch and seem to have permission for an early afternoon gin. They enjoy scrambled eggs for dinner.

Small comforts:

Afternoon tea with my book, and a Volare hot-cross bun slathered in fig jam, curled up on a comfy rolled-arm couch. In my childhood, the couch is in the bay window of my grandparents’ homestead at Kawhia, and I read my grandmother’s novels from its depths. There are genteel romances such as The Winning of Barbara Worth and With Juliet in England. Physical contact between lovers is a squeeze of the hand or a chaste embrace. My grandfather’s Popular Mechanics magazines are piled at one end and I carefully move them to the floor before I stretch out. The faded couch is my happy place in these lockdown days; I treasure its history.