More than one person has suggested to me that the Covid-19 crisis reminds them of the war years (1939-45). Among other effects there is the same all perfusing anxiety along with shortages of goods in the shops. Reflecting on this brought back memories of my childhood in Brighton – a beautiful town (now a city) that was badly hit by bombing – and of the people who dominated my landscape of the time. Rationing meant that the butcher, the baker and the grocer were important people and it was essential to gain their goodwill. Below I retail my memories of one of these in particular, Mr Bott, the Grocer.

During the war, we had to register with a grocer to ensure our ration of butter, cheese, eggs and similar items. The nearest to our house was the establishment of Mr. R.A. Bott in the next street. My mother was not keen on Mr Bott, possibly because he was a plausible gentlemen who obviously enjoyed holding court before a shopful of housewives, but convenience won the day. Being but a child, I was not aware of social nuances between my widowed mother and the men she necessarily had to deal with, though I have sometimes put two and two together since. Whatever the problem with Mr Bott, it may have been the reason why I was usually required to accompany my mother on visits to his shop.

Mr Bott supplied each of his customers with a notebook, one of those with a cash column on the right, drawn in red lines. He had a big rubber stamp which listed all the most common items you could buy in his shop and when you went for your groceries you were supposed to present the notebook so that he could stamp a new list into it. As you accumulated your purchases on the counter, Mr Bott would annotate the list with the number or quantity and, of course, the price. Then he would add up the bill with a flourish of his pencil.

The notebook was stoutly bound with a hard cover. At either end was a white fly leaf and on the front one I drew a picture, labelling it carefully “Mr Bott”. My mother was unaware of the drawing until she next visited the grocer’s and Mr Bott opened the notebook to discover his likeness. Fortunately, he was amused, sparing my mother possible embarrassment. Anyone skilled in interpreting children’s drawings would have recognized the very picture of an English grocer of those times. Mr Bott wore well pressed suit trousers and what we would now call a business shirt. He wore a tie, of course, as nearly all men still did then. But his most grocerly accoutrement was his apron, white, crisp, spotless and voluminous. It mounted to within a few inches of the knot in his tie and descended to mid-leg. Its waist ribbons passed round the back and tied in front. Mr Bott was elderly when I knew him, with greying hair and eyes that smiled through steel-rimmed spectacles. He stood safely isolated from the public behind his L-shaped counter which enclosed two sides of the small rectangular space left in the well-stocked but small shop for customers. The other sides were formed by a wall and the door.

Customers would crowd into their small pen and await Mr Bott’s attention, perhaps exchanging gossip in the meantime. When at last the grocer’s amiable notice fell upon you, there was first the inevitable greeting and exchange of small talk. “That lad of yours is shooting up,isn’t he? He’ll soon be out there giving Hitler a run for his money, I’ll be bound.” Then shopping began. In those days of rationing, we could have only half a packet of butter per week. The wrapping was marked along one edge by a sort of ruler line to aid cutting it. This Mr Bott did with a long sharp knife, sticking a rectangle of greaseproof paper on the exposed butter. Perhaps he would treat you to a conspiratorial wink and announce that he had a little extra bacon this week if you were interested – off the ration, of course. When this happened, you knew you had joined the ranks of favoured customers.

Once, my mother had opened a boiled egg only to find that it stank. The previous time this had happened and she had complained, Mr Bott had declined to believe that his eggs could ever be “off”, so this time she wrapped it in greaseproof and took it round to the shop. Mr. Bott was dismayed; he fluttered his hands and protested; it was not necessary to bring the egg back: she had only to tell him – or send the boy – and due reparations would be made. My mother replied that any time she had a bad egg she would bring it back: she was always quick to spot an advantage.

The grocery shop was really just a modified house, as were many little shops in backstreets. When I returned to my old home 40-odd years on, I of course sought out Mr Bott’s tiny emporium. I found the site easily enough but it was no longer a shop. Its outline deformed by new but already weathered building work, it had reverted into a dwelling. The same fate had befallen most of the other little shops around there, including the one on the way to school where I would peer into the window at the complete set of farm toys, all the animals, fences, the farmer and his wife, the milkmaid with the yoke and buckets, and best of all, the horse and cart which I eventually had the joy of owning. I sometimes wonder whether the new occupants of the defunct grocery are ever troubled by the ghost of an elderly gent in a brilliant white apron contemplating his childishly drawn portrait in a small hardbacked notebook.

Lloyd Square, Islington

We had a late lunch (late because we had spent a busy morning doing not very much) and then went out for our daily stroll. Along the way I took this photo looking west along Lloyd Avenue. You can see the Post Office Tower in the background.

This is a typical Georgian residential square with fine terrace houses built around a central garden girt about by iron railings. In many cases, these gardens have reverted to Council control but Lloyd Square’s garden is still accessible to residents only.

Incidentally, Georgian houses can usually be recognized by two characteristics: firstly, that the windows on the top floor are smaller than those on the lower floors and, secondly, that they have a basement with its own entrance, accessible by an external staircase. This leaves an open space below pavement level for lighting.

We thought we might buy take-away coffee at Myddelton’s Delicatessen but it turns out that they close at 3pm on Saturday so we were unlucky.

It is a fine sunny day today with a pale blue sky. I was very warm despite having only a light coat on. It would be a perfect day for one of our exploratory outings but those are off the agenda for the foreseeable future.

We followed a roughly circular route, in a clockwise direction, which brought us onto Pentonville Road via Penton Rise.

There were quite a few people about on the main road, some of them shoppers coming from the local branch of Tesco. Most played the game and kept their distance.

It would be easy to become neurotic as a result of feeling confined and these daily outings help keep up morale.

It has been some time since I posted here and if you have given up on me, I do not blame you.

I ceased posting before the Covid-19 crisis became apparent. One reason was that my intention of “posting on the hoof” turned out more energy- and time-consuming than I had anticipated. Quite often I would return home with a batch of photos and have to compose my post retrospectively, reviving the problems of time and energy that had caused me to close my old blog. To be honest, the pressure of this became too much and I gave up trying. Not that we stopped going out and about. No, that continued (until Covid-19 shut us down) but I simply could not find the courage and energy to write about it and take photos. I took a holiday, you might say, and this threatened to become permanent.

The arrival of the Covid-19 pandemic has of course changed everything. We can no longer travel about but are confined to home except for the daily outing we allow ourselves, either to take a walk through the quiet back streets for air and exercise or to go to the supermarket for needed supplies. As a treat, we may call in at a delicatessen near us for take-away coffee.

By the time the lockdown was imposed, Tigger was already working from home. Each day, Monday to Friday, she would enter her “office” (the the settee in our living room), fire up the company laptop and log onto the company VPN to carry out her tasks in communication with colleagues also working remotely. This Friday, even that changed: along with numbers of her colleagues, Tigger has been “furloughed”. This means that she is not allowed to log on and do any work, though she has been invited to log on for the daily briefings for her team.

Life has changed radically as a result of Covid-19 but I need not stress that point because you and the rest of us are all in the same boat, so to speak, and you understand the situation as well as I do. Our daily life no doubt reflects yours unless you are one of the “key workers” who still go out to work or a member the never-sufficiently-praised NHS personnel, daily fighting the global enemy on the frontline. We must see to it when this is all over that they receive the rewards and gratitude that they so deserve.

The Internet has of course come into its own and sites such as Facebook have never been so busy. Some of the blogs that I follow have become more active. (See under Blogroll in the sidebar.) One of these is Brighton & Hove’s (Discover) blog which frequently publishes articles about its collection, exhibitions and other topics of interest. (I grew up in Brighton and retain an affection for that pleasant and dynamic seaside city.)

A number of friends have been keeping in touch with me through email and if you feel like commenting on the blog or merely passing the time of day, you are welcome to leave a comment or use the contact form or the email address given in the sidebar under Contact. I will always reply.