The staggered queue ran the length of the carpark. Admission allowed, once someone had left, by bomber jacket custodians.
Droned at by the tannoy to maintain social distancing.
Inside, feverish panic could be tasted, a cruel sting within the aroma of fresh baked bread.
We began to break the rules, as tins vanished from the shelves, walking against the black tape arrows that hardly anyone could see.
There was a scramble for pasta, a scrum for meat.
A fist fight started in the toilet roll aisle, insults and jars hurled
Trolleys full, we surged for the defensive line of tills.
Steven Patchett is an Engineer, Father and Writer, in that order, living and working in the North East of England. His Flash Fictions have been published in Ellipsis Zine and The Cabinet of Heed. He can be found on Twitter, being encouraging @StevenPatchett7.