It never occurred to me years ago during my frantic working days that shopping would prove to be so enviable a detour. Now retired since 2014, no longer venturing to the beach for six months annually, having exchanged the bicycle for the tricycle and having confessed the implausibility of 20 Km hikes, it cannot be ignored that the once mundane enterprise of shopping is an unrivalled diversion.

This confession is significantly a reflection of my increasing immobility, a limitation which has succeeded to extinguish my former habits (such as collecting groceries and household provisions) and peculiar indulgences (such as clothing, hardware or jewellery stores). I might usefully add the erstwhile allure of museums and art galleries.

What makes the alteration especially piquant is not the deprivation of stuff (my partner routinely attends to those necessities; and what we don’t have, we don’t need); rather, it was evident to me today as I struggled through the aisles of Shoppers Drug Mart (where we were getting our COVID booster shots) that I miss so seeing the array of things stored on the counters and display cases. As an inveterate consumer I was quick to identify a myriad of possibilities (“I see therefore I buy”).  It became apparent that just seeing the opportunity was a psychological boost. The social imperative was clearly not the only improvement of life. Shopping was its independent ritual requiring fulfillment.

Unwittingly I have attempted to dilute communal necessity by adopting the on-line vernacular; but I learned – on occasion to my dismay – that altering the change room for expediency is not a guaranteed achievement.  Some things simply require personal attention; intelligence and experience are not to be confused with one another.

Accordingly – that is, reluctantly acknowledging the need to submit to change – I have relented in my desire to live the life of my uninhibited youth.  The contraction of the broad pathway of vitality to the narrow endeavours of aging is an inescapable consequence of evolution notwithstanding the vivid recollections I have of poking about Holt Renfrew (at times manifestly tolerated with my unleashed and notably popular French bulldog Monroe). At other times, such as at NK in Stockholm, Sweden or at Alyea jewellers on Sparks Street, Ottawa with my mother, I recall having consumed considerable capital of all resources to secure a favourable late afternoon summary over a celebratory cocktail.

Now, by comparison, I have relinquished my active involvement in the commercial experience. For instance I now content myself to have prompted the acquisition of cognac, sherry and wine to ornament our cellar. What makes the staging more compelling is that the products of inebriation are reserved for those of our occasional visitors who still drink alcohol. The limitation proscribes a seemingly boundless sphere.