Farida F. Alvarez

Vignettes from my daily walks and musings on class distinction, consumerism and Catholic guilt.

In Maida Vale and Queen’s Park, gym refugees scurry around desperate to replicate their routines. There is a palpable sense of urgency and desperation in the air; the work out together – stay together couples are testing the limits of their fitness as well as their relationships. 

Ubiquitous now are the tired old New Balances, a playful fluorescent model here, a drab charcoal mesh there, paired with leggings (but not the good Lulu Lemon yoga ones) and a body warmer or a winter coat, because while the sun has been out in full force, it is still only 8 degrees (real feel: glacial ball freeze). Men sort of look like how you imagine PE teachers might at the weekend. This is the death of fashion.

With scarcely nowhere else to go except parks, supermarkets and newsagents, social distinctions begin to manifest themselves. I pass a Gail’s Bakery on the corner opposite Maida Vale tube station where caffeine and organic wheat fiends adhere to exemplary distancing protocol; the queue stretching back a good 150 metres. Desperate for their fix, people wait stoically for their flat whites and San Francisco sourdough loaves- and as one of the few places in the three mile radius serving Union hand-roasted take-away coffee, it is after all, a chance to feign normality.

At the twenty-four hour Tesco supermarket and petrol station nearby it’s a slightly different story. We wait, awkwardly, to the side of the supermarket by the stacked up bags of charcoal, obstructing those trying to park in the allotted spaces. A man wearing a standard issue TFL polo shirt  appears and asks, bewildered, if we are all in the queue. We cautiously take a step back and say yes. We’ve all spotted we have a social distancing rebel on our hands. He tuts and groans loudly. It’s such an inconvenience isn’t it. A masked Tesco employee appears at the door. With a swift ‘enter now’ hand movement, I nod in gratitude and friendly obedience and cross the threshold. Once inside, I notice people are dawdling. Luxuriating in the amount of space we have to shop all of a sudden, like a private view at a gallery. At the fresh produce section, now an interactive still-life installation, I contemplate the radishes. Behind me stands a gym bro deep in thought, his anguished expression Caravaggio-esque. With a wry smile I empathise with him for a moment, for I realise what a crushing ball-ache it must be to have to recalculate your macros now that you can’t lift as much as you used to at the gym. Quite likely there were some serious mathematical calculations taking place in his head as he stood there, phone pressed against top lip, brow furrowed; so if he replaces 200g of chicken with 250g of edamame beans would he shred or bulk? Does this mean he needs to increase or decrease his courgetti portion size? Is he allowed to have bean sprouts? So many questions. I pick up a packet of coriander and move on.

Having never baked a cookie in my life- that I can remember, I decide to give that a go. (Still haven’t done it). I pick up some bicarbonate of soda and a bottle of white wine for my Zoom hangout later that evening. At the till, a friendly cashier smiles at me (I think) from behind her blue facemask. Are you baking? I think she says. Yes, I reply. Cookies. Coupled with not being able to see her lips move was the added hindrance of her having quite a strong South Asian accent. I’m quite certain without the facemask I would have understood her, but distracted by the absurdity of the situation, all I was getting was muffle muffle PAUSE, muffle muffle PAUSE. I manage to get that she had started baking too, and that she recommends a cake to bake that was very easy- I think. I bluff as best I can but she catches on. She tells me to wait there. She abandons her post. A minute later she rememerges with a Betty Crocker packet – a Victoria sponge cake making kit. That’s what she’d been muffling on about. Ah! Thank you!, I reply, somewhat baffled. Was she on commision? I don’t buy it. A longer queue has formed behind me. With only semi-appropriate distancing at best . Not as hot as Gail’s. I pray grumpy TFL man wasn’t in the queue. I’d last seen him harrumphing around the deli chiller cabinet. I make my way out.  

Interlude:

Scenes from the park:

I don’t know, Mum’s being very tally-ho about the whole thing – middle-aged mumsy type, on the phone to a sibling, full stiff upper lip, spirit of the Blitz mode engaged.

So this mornin’ we got an email from the CEO…male, mid-30’s nouveau riche, Estuary-English baritone voice gym-refugee talking to his friends in between sets. I’m presuming it didn’t end well.

I’m used to eating bare calories, I’m getting fat. Yet another gym refugee, local boy, lamenting to someone on the phone, inconsolable as he realises he can no longer use the outdoor gym areas as they’ve been cordoned off. Stay strong my man, stay strong. 

Charlie, say hello! Not too close remember, we’re supposed to keep our distance! – Responsible dad telling his oblivious three year old how not to get up in someone’s grill yet be simultaneously polite. Anyone else worried about future intimacy issues these kids are going to have if this becomes a long ting?

Vulnerable relationships with underlying health conditions also at risk:

Her: It’s just lately I feel like..-she begins, looking down and off into the distance at the field of freshly bloomed daffodils, the afternoon sun reflected in her Botticelli curls, bringing out the best of her balayaged hair.

Him: Yeah but wait a minute, I was the one that suggested we do fun stuff like get bikes and …-he interrupts, somewhat passive aggressively. I scrutinise the geometric topiary of the facial hair, the determined verticality of his gelled coiff, the questionable rock in his ear.

Her: Yeah but, it’s just I feel like…-she intercepts. The sound of defeat in her voice resonated with me. That mild exasperation when you don’t have the energy to fight it anymore. I had already walked past before I could hear the next part but I feel like I know where that was headed.

Oh that’s such a shame… cuz this time of year is normally such a great time to have someone.. Blabs a marketing yuppy-type to a friend down her phone with the smugness that implies she does have someone, while her friend or someone they low-key mutually hate has just had a break-up. 

A day or two later (who knows)…

 The past couple of decades has seen Queen’s Park take on a somewhat genteel character. On one side of the park you have the leafy NW6- red brick terraces, generously proportioned windows, manicured front garden hedges; you get the picture. The other side is closer to Kilburn High Road, and thus has always maintained a more everyday value feel, let’s say. But alas, gentrification has been making steep gains. 

At the park itself, essentially breaking the law, I had a stop and chat with a photographer I’d met there the day before. I counted a four feet distance between us at most. He had asked if he could take my picture as he wanted to document local people going out anyway in this supposed half-arsed quarantine. He looked legit- I’d spied him earlier on taking an Italian man’s portrait in the middle of the green. The Italian was middle-aged, slender with birdlike features sporting those glasses with the coloured frames only Italian intellectuals and artists can get away with. He gesticulated wildly casting long shadows on the green, directing both himself and the photographer, it was amusing. 

He photographed me under a blossom tree in the late afternoon sun and had a kind of Louis Theroux meets Bradley Cooper vibe. When I met him again by chance the next day, he told me he was on his way to Planet Organic.  I was somewhat alarmed but not surprised to learn that one had cropped up in the area. But cropped up it had and off he went down to “P.O” to “nab the last of the celery before it all disappeared”. I scoffed, but I knew it was only a matter of time before I also went there to get my unsweetened oat milk. And sure enough the day did come. 

Situated at the end of the high street section of Salusbury Road, P.O occupies the main part of a heritage redbrick building; some former school or something wholesome. To get there you need to walk past a Co-Op; I looked in to survey the scene, a handful of people, no queue outside, not really part of the QP scene.( I don’t think people really understand the Co-Op. It doesn’t really make sense in inner-city London. Nobody cares that Tunnock tea-cakes are made in the UK or that their scones are locally sourced. It’s too provincial). Next door to that is a gym, then a Sainsbury’s. I see something of a commotion. At first I thought it might have been an unruly queue gone awry. Three Community Support Officers are standing outside, one is talking to a homeless man sat down outside- but he’s not the one causing trouble. It’s the man over to the left, who, I overhear from the CSO speaking into his walkie-talkie, has just been caught trying to steal two bottles of wine. Yes! There’s the Queen’s Park we all know. You can try and socially distance Queen’s Park from Kilburn, but you can’t geographically take Kilburn out of Queen’s Park. 

Moving on from this pastoral scene, I finally come to Planet Organic. And at times like these it really does feel that it’s in its own orbit. First of all they have a bouncer store greeter. He’s very good at telling people to stand behind the designated yellow lines outside the store where we patiently queue; also keeping his eye on people inside. It’s a two-in-two-out policy and I feel special, chosen, exclusive. I feel like I’m about to enter a private members’ club. It’s my turn; he motions me over with a smile and a complimentary spritz of hand sanitiser spray. For a brief second I’m transported back to Catholic mass; I hold out my hands in order to be sprayed and thus cleansed- I have the urge to say Amen. I don’t. 

But of course it’s all marketing. It smells good and I immediately locate the item in the store. I zoom in on the shelf- those P.O guys have the sanitiser section in primo position as soon as you enter. At £11.99, I weigh up my options. It’s natural, it’s an investment, Lord knows I’ll need it for a while. IT’S A RIP OFF. I listen to the other guy. But we are natural born consumers. It’s only logical I entertain the thought of a purchase.  Inside, they are playing a soothing, mellow jazz bossa nova album. I feel a calmness sweep over me as I bop around looking at all the wellness products. I gaze longingly at the £56 face cream and sniff and admire the packaging of the £34 scented candles and feel better- elevated. 

Giving people as wide a berth as possible, exchanging polite smiles as I go, I arrive at the dried food and sauces aisle and I am delighted to find passata. They had run out last week at the Wholefoods. I catch myself in this absurd moment. Delighted that I have found my precious, organic passata. There’s a limit to how many you can buy. I consider going for the maximum of four but don’t. There’s really no need. I take one, but I am filled with self loathing.

I want to be cleansed again. Hand sanitiser is all well and good, but if we are to be cleansed, should we not also have some kind of collective secular confession? Forgive us Planet Earth for we have sinned. Must we also atone and promise that we will do better? For every week in quarantine we are saying a Hail Mary; that it will end soon.  I count my blessings- and we are blessed, really. I become momentarily paralysed by the dairy substitutes trying to choose a vegan cream cheese that I don’t think will taste like rotten shoelaces nor send me back into my overdraft. I am lost in thought. I stop myself short of trying to make some kind of long-winded ironic connection between Instagram stories of people feeling blessed going viral, and an aggressive strain of a virus that has literally gone viral, and how we are indeed blessed if, like the angel of death, it passes over us. But I stop myself. It’s a bit contrived. I want to be healed by the sage and clary £56 night cream. I want my aura cleansed by the lavender and olive oil scented candles. I want to know if it’s the soya milk or the Ryvita that’s making me feel a bit bloated. Isn’t celery good for a bloated tummy? 

Back outside, the CSOs by Sainsbury’s have dealt with the shoplifter. Middle class gentrification has been restored. I pass the M&S opposite Queen’s Park station. People are ever so well behaved. Two metre gaps between each person obediently queuing up. They have a uniformed woman at the door, very well turned out. She reminds me of a flight attendant welcoming people on the plane as she motions two to come in as another two leave. And this is the reality we are in now. I’m steeling myself for the next two months where we will be trading Aperol Spritz for hand sanitiser spritzes; planning trips to the supermarket where we will wait patiently to purchase restricted items rather than bring them on board. Staying grounded. 

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