Like a Velvet Glove...

 In Belfast, on a Sunday, the shops don't open until one in the afternoon. There are many idiosyncrasies to the Belfast shopping experience, the customer service for one, but most of them centre on religious queasiness: the door bells on the off licences, the alcoholic shame booths in the supermarkets - drinks live in a separate area of the shop behind a saloon door, and there are tills in the supermarkets - even self-service ones - where you're not allowed to buy booze. When I first moved here, the local M&S didn't have a license to sell intoxicants but still had to join in the national meal deals, meaning where the rest of the UK got a main, a pudding and a bottle of wine included in their special offer, Northern Irish diners had to settle for a bottle of Shloer. I'd never even heard of Shloer before I came here and, ironically, it does sound like the sort of thing you'd order when you're pissed. In the city centre, the off-licences close at 5.30 or 6. Outside of the city centre they stay open until 9, or 10 on weekends. The supermarkets shut at 10 too. They used to shut at 11, but now they don't. 

This isn't just Sunday. This is every day. The shops waiting until the afternoon to open is the only feature specific to a Sunday. 

I lived in London for fifteen years and re-set to make London my base-normal. So, I find all of this weird indoctrinated, religiosity perverse. It's the same impulse that saw them tie up the children's swings, stopper the roundabouts, and run a big stake through the bottom of the slide. Happiness, play, joy, relaxation, crapulence and stupor. Not on God's special day. You've worked hard all week, now it's time to sit still, in uncomfortable clothes and be berated by a child-molester for your many shortcomings, and tomorrow it's back to the grindstone to toil without reward or satisfaction. Because that's good, and that's right. 

What I didn't know, as I set out under a deeply suspicious blue sky to buy razor blades and deodorant, is that pharmacies don't open at all on Sundays. For some reason, chemist and baker seem to be the two most aggressively religious and judgemental professions. You can't write what you like on your cake and you can't get the morning after pill without some very frosty tussling. And the pharmacist isn't open on a Sunday. I don't know about the bakeries, as cakes don't feature much in my life - unless they've been left on my doormat by Tom Cruise - but deodorant and razor blades do. Shaving and smelling nice are the cornerstones of my tattered self-image. Without them I have nothing. 

Boots had the shutters down, so I kept on to the self-styled Ballysnackamore, the local shopping area that fancies itself sophisticated and high-end because it features six estate agents and calls itself  a "vibrant foodie suburb". In fact there are six pizza outlets and five or six near identical restaurants with near identical upscale pub-food menus. Just lately they've started to close down, winking out like bubbles in a frothy reduction. The chemist in Ballhackamore was closed too. It started raining. I put my hood up and carried on. Tesco would probably not have my specific brand of deodorant, or a razor blade that might fit my handle. Shaving is not popular now. Everyone has a beard. And I can see why. Razorblades are insanely expensive. They also come in a panoply of colours, sizes, blade-counts, handles and names. To this end I took the old box with me to the shops, so I could make sure actually buy the correct blades. 

Tesco had my deodorant. I'm a Dove Men Plus Care man, despite the stupid name. I covered up my stink with Sure for thirty years, but I picked up Dove Men Plus Care on holiday in Jersey and fell in love. I've never looked back. Truthfully, I don't even need any deodorant. I have two cans of the stuff at home. But these days I like to have a lot of deodorant in the house in case of a spontaneous Trevi Fountain hyperhidrosis melt-down. But razor blades I need. And they only have disposables. Disposable razors are self-harmer's delight. They'll allow you slice your face to ribbons and nobody ever calls social services. But I happen to be the world's only fan of my face, and my preference is for it unshredded. You'd be better off taking a grater to your cheeks. 

I do something I never do. I ask the boy behind the counter. He is a boy. His ownership of a moustache means nothing. He gestures with his chin to the back of set of shelves in front of the counter, shelves of tempting sweeties to snag you just before you pay. I have been in this shop many times and have never looked at the back of this shelf. There they are. Razor blades and - I whip out the box from my anorak pocket - they're the correct ones. I pick up a packet. Its huge and only eight quid. I know it doesn't sound like it, but that is a bargain. I make my purchases and leave. 

I move on to M&S. It's stopped raining. Things are looking up. I'm looking to buy a bottle of wine and some tonic water. M&S is its usual nightmare: abandon all spatial awareness ye who enter here. It's a maze of luxury ready-meals peopled by people who inexplicable push trolleys around. Who is doing their big shop in M&S? Is everyone a billionaire except me now? I try and get into the shame-booth of booze and fail because has the same dimensions as a portaloo, and there are two trolleys in there. I'm not angry, I'm impressed. They must have slathered them in mayonnaise just to squeeze them in. I remember I need natural yoghurt and a lemon, so I go to the yoghurt section. A couple are standing in front of the doors where the yoghurt is. I see there are some "yellow label" cheap meals in the same fridge and the pair are painstakingly examining each one. I go back to the booze booth. Still full of ponderous trolley pushers. I go to the fruit and veg area. Littered with people. A pram. A stroller. More trolleys. But I slalom past and secure a lemon. I go back to the booze booth. One of the trolleys has gone, but like a gas, the other shopper has expanded to fill the space. I go back to the yoghurts. The yellow labelists have departed. I get the yoghurt. I gather up a packet of Percy Pigs for Susan. Finally, the wine enthusiast backs out of the booth and I pick up a bottle of wine. My first in two weeks, which is quite a long time for me. I pay, I leave. I look in my bag. The razor blades that I thought were a bargain prove not to be. There are only two blades in it. The reason the packet is so big is that it contains a handle, a handle I don't need. I've paid eight quid plus for two razor blades. 

I do something I never do. I try to return it. Amazingly, though I'd previously turned down Super Mario's offer of a receipt, there was a no quibble policy. "Is it just the blades you're after?" he said, and produced them with magician's flourish from behind the counter. Four blades instead of two. I took them. Over a tenner for four blades. Gillette, get your hands out of my pocket, you thieving bastards. Still, I paid. I value my bare cheeks. Ask anyone.  

I pass the bus stop just as a bus arrives and think, I could get the bus home. But no, I'm walking everyday again, just as I'm not drinking and eating a lot of fish and salad. It's my 55th birthday in a month and I feel fat and old, mainly because I am. This is my pathetic way of showing willing. Like my body cares, like it isn't too little too late. Even if I lost weight now my empty skin would just hang down in flapping pleats, halfway between a washing line and the pink wattles of Dr Zoidberg. But, you know, I have compromised legs, and I want to keep them moving for as long as possible. So I walk home. It immediately starts to rain. 

I don't care. I have coat with a hood. The problem with a hood though, is that it blinkers you. You lose your peripheral vision. As I was crossing a junction in the pissing rain at a green light, a car sounded its horn and I shat myself, leaping at the curb, only to see a man on the other side of the road waving at a passing vehicle. The people of Northern Ireland beep their horns when they see people they know and they don't give a shit if you're crossing the road with compromised visibility while they're doing it. They're friendly, see. 

I mean, they aren't, especially. But they say they are, and if you disagree with them they'll threaten to kill you. 

I got in. I got out of my wet clothes. I cooked a chicken. Susan and I had a gin and tonic. Safe. Away from the local service industry. The next day I had a luxurious shave: fresh blade, Eucris scented shaving soap, lathered with a badger hair brush. My cheeks were as smooth as a velvet glove. It was almost worth it.