I'm living in the hospital now, in a small "relatives room" equipped with a comfy sofa bed and, of course, a teakettle. I occupy it only to sleep, as I'm almost always at David's bedside. But a girl's gotta eat. Unfortunately, this small hospital has no cafeteria. Special meals tailored to each patient's needs are brought in three times daily.
Ross-on-Wye's chain grocery, the size of Tom's Market, can be found at the lower end of this lovely medieval town. It offers cooked chickens. I must have eaten 10,000 of these beasts, or parts thereof, and yet I still enjoy the taste. The odd baked leg and wing are tucked behind the hospital curtain in a cold spot. I warm them in the nurses' microwave oven. Sometimes I buy sliced ham, scissor it onto a ready made salad, and add vinegar/oil dressing. Simple is good. I haven't time for fancier fare.
Today, while David slept, I trotted down Ross' steeply descending high street (main streets in English villages/towns are "high") past a 700-year-old half-timbered building, currently an antique shop, that appears to be melting in slow motion from the weight of centuries. I never get tired of looking at it.
At the grocery I fetched a small basket and began to collect a few essentials. I entered an aisle -- and gasped. Two 30-something spike-haired ladies were shopping in ruffled nightgowns and tired slippers. One had mercifully added a sloppily tied, faded flannel robe. They chatted while reaching for kiddy cereal. It was surreal. An older lady crisply dressed in pleated skirt and tailored coat paused next to me. We stared, then exchanged glances. Tight-lipped, she shook her head, turned around and chose another aisle. Sometimes words seem superfluous.
How would a man react? I didn't have long to wait. A middle-aged gentleman wearing a tie strode by, stared, then spoke sharply. "For heavens sake, get some proper clothes on!" They shrugged and laughed, immune to his admonition.
Fascinated, I followed as the ladies tossed cereal and bread into their carts. Perhaps, having chauffeured the kids to school, it seemed convenient to shop afterwards. Most patrons observed their garb with narrowed eyes, then rendered both invisible by looking past them. So British.
But some people must have registered their indignation to the manager, because three days later I saw a large, red-lettered sign posted on the main door: "To avoid causing offence or embarrassment to others we ask that our customers be appropriately dressed. Proper footwear must be worn at all times and no nightwear is permitted."
These sorts of reminders are increasingly common. A clear plastic bag containing socks reads: "Warning! This bag should not be placed over an infant's face as there exists the danger of smothering." My British washer won't allow me access for 90 interminable seconds after it finishes. Safety reasons. I'm baffled by the "nanny state" of things. Is the obvious so difficult to grasp? Must we be spoon-fed common sense?
Later I read in the paper that another huge supermarket chain had begun ejecting shoppers who wore night attire. An amazed 24-year-old pajama-clad mother of two, having been tossed out of Tesco's, exclaimed: "I just don't understand it. I go in other shops like this; they don't say anything. I've got lovely pairs of pajamas, with bears and penguins on them. I've worn my best ones today, just so I look tidy."
A large color photo of her pushing her grocery cart was displayed. Her flimsy PJs did sport penguins.
The British majority, I daresay, are amazed by her amazement.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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