The Mathematician and I recently finished our weekend coffee-morning read: Theories of International Politics and Zombies: Apocalypse Edition. (Coinciding nicely with halloween.) Digging into IR theory’s fun when it takes a zombie ‘What if?’ and runs (lurches) with it. Want to know how top-heavy bureaucracies fare when the undead take to the streets? Look no further than Chapter 12. (Spoiler: They get off to a rather slow start, but if society survives the first few weeks or months, they might be in with a shot. Small comfort for those living in the Bureaucratic Republic of Germany.)
Whether it’s the impending apocalypse still resonating, or a glance at a few empty shelves, I decide one fine mid-week morning to pop to the shops to stock up on a few supplies. Most critical of all: spelt flakes. These little grey slivers of joy make a rather fine bed for sliced bananas, with a duvet of peanut mousse and a dusting of amaranth, chia, and sesame. And we were all out. So I slip on my hikers and beat the familiar track to DM, Germany’s answer to the UK’s Boots.
They stock the cereals near the vitamins. They stock the vitamins near jars of beans and bags of pasta. Next to those things are an array of nutritious powders. In short, it’s a busy aisle. It’s also a narrow aisle, requiring both tetchy customers and testy staff to do the Sod-off Samba. I’m not really one for dancing, so I throw myself into the current like a Poohstick and grab what I need as I’m buffeted.
I arrive in a less-turbulent patch and stand for a second, enjoying the respite from irascible eddies. Ah, yes, they’ve just restocked, I think. I see an entire two racks full of flakes. I’m about to make my way forwards when I hear a moan behind me. It’s the sort of breathy sound that tends to come from zombies when they catch sight of the living. I keep very still. I consider inclining my head and leaning over to one side, to look more like one of them. Something bumps into me from behind. I glance over my shoulder and see a leathery arm in an oversized sleeve reach out. I sidle out of the way. Not too smoothly — I don’t want to give the impression I’m alive. The arm continues on its way and bony fingers close around a bag of walnuts. Seems I’ll get to keep my brains.
But there’s more moaning and reaching. When I (bravely) turn around, I see several elderly couples umming and ahing by the vitamins. Hands lift packets of iron and magnesium from the shelves, turn the boxes round, place them back. One pack of vitamin D helpfully has a photo of a smiling grey-haired couple on the front. This is put into a basket, along with a box of Active 65+ (with ginseng).
As I calculate the best way past the medicine folk, an article I recently read in the Guardian pops to mind: Can bowhead whales with their 200-year lifespan help us to slow ageing? Seems these Arctic beauties are exceptionally good at repairing DNA damage. Very useful, assuming you can avoid the predation of whalers. I wonder what vitamin racks of the future will hold.
Thinking of the future, I decide to make my way towards it. I gyrate round a moment of chick-pea indecision (grabbing a jar for myself) and exit through a narrow gap into nappy land. There’s only a single buggy here, and with the flash of a charismatic ‘Excuse me,’ I’m past it and heading for the tills. I realise I forgot to grab peanuts. No matter — I’m not going back. I’ve seen the bright light of the entrance and I’m heeding the call.
