The plate glass doors of the supermarket whoosh to and fro for masked shoppers with their trolleys. On the other side Pat and Irma sit on a row of hard airport-style seats, shuddering with each waft of cold air. At 87 and 92 and too infirm to take a socially distanced walk in the park, they clutch take-away teas in paper cups with labels still dangling on their strings and lids that shunt spills of tea down their fronts. As they stand, the doors move inhospitably to usher them out.
“See you here next week then,” they say.