The Yeti Coat Epiphany

It’s very much that kind of Sunday. The kind that feels like it’s been dragged straight out of lockdown and plonked, cack-handedly, into the present. The air is flat. The sky is doing that dull grey thing where it can’t even commit to being miserable properly — hovering there like a half-formed thought. And there’s a queue. A queue so long it feels intentional. It snakes down the pavement like slow-moving tedium. People stand in it as if they’ve simply… accepted their fate. No urgency. No spark. Just quiet resignation, reusable bags clutched like they might save them from boredom. No one looks like they have anywhere better to be. Still… I’m here too. Which maybe says more about me? Directly in front of me, two old ladies are absolutely going for it. Proper squabbling. None of that polite British passive aggression. No, this is full-contact, no-survivors, pensioner warfare. “I was here first!” one yells, jabbing her walking stick like she’s aiming to take an eye out. “You senile old bag!” the other snaps back, voice wobbling with rage. “I was blatantly here before you.” She shoves her. Not a gentle nudge. Not an accidental bump. A committed, two-handed shove delivered with venom. “Jesus wept,” I mutter under my breath, eyes widening slightly, but not nearly enough to suggest I’ll be intervening. Because I should, shouldn’t I? Step in. Diffuse it. Be the bigger person. Be the kind of adult people write mildly inspiring Facebook posts about. Instead… my feet stay firmly planted. And I watch. I soak in the drama like it’s the best thing I’ve seen all week — which, to be fair, it probably is. Every jab, every indignant gasp, every aggressive repositioning of orthopaedic footwear. I half expect someone to start chanting, fight, fight, fight. Honestly… I’d give it a minute and then probably join in. But before one of them claims victory — or loses a hip — the doors finally hiss open, and the queue collectively exhales as it begins to shuffle forward. Saved by capitalism. Inside, I grab a basket. Just milk. Maybe bread. Essentials. A clean, efficient in-and-out job. No detours. No emotional side-quests. Just me and my basket. Which is exactly why I find myself in the homeware section three minutes later, sniffing a candle like it holds the answers to my unresolved trauma. It smells like “enlightenment.” Or possibly £18 worth of disappointment in a jar. I can’t quite decide which. Either way, I’m mid-inhale — fully committed, nose-deep in faux serenity — when I see him. Lee. Undeniable. A face that predates even secondary school. The kind of familiar that sits deep in your bones, whether you invited it there or not. “Ah shit,” I mumble, accidentally exhaling directly into the candle like I’m trying to put it out with shame. He walks past me. Oblivious. I freeze. Full prey animal stillness. Maybe… maybe I’ve been spared. Maybe I can just — He stops. At the essential oils. Of course he does. “Dammit,” I whisper, already feeling the beginnings of something dreadful unfurling in my chest. And then I remember what I’m wearing. The yeti coat. My husband’s words, not mine — but annoyingly accurate. Fluffy. Cosy. Aggressively present. Faintly unflattering in a way that doesn’t allow for subtlety. You don’t wear it so much as arrive in it. It is not, under any circumstances, a coat one can hide in. Which makes what happens next feel borderline malicious. Because the coat… grows. It puffs out. Expands. Multiplies its own audacity. “Oh, well this is less than ideal,” I mutter, watching in horror as my sleeves swell like I’m about to take flight. I try to walk away casually, but the coat has committed to the performance. It gets fluffier. Bigger. Louder — absorbing space, attention, dignity. My cheeks burn hotter and hotter as it balloons around me. People are staring now. Of course they are. I attempt evasive manoeuvres — ducking behind shelves, weaving through clothing racks, pretending to be deeply interested in things I have no intention of buying. Lee lingers somewhere behind me, always just a little too close. Like a memory that refuses to be ignored — or worse, one that’s finally caught up. “I really don’t want to make small talk,” I whisper to myself. “Not today.” They don’t call me antisocial for nothing. I wear that badge with pride. CRASH. The sound cuts through everything. I turn. Lee has walked straight into a tower of cola bottles. They cascade to the floor in a dramatic, fizzy avalanche — caps popping, liquid hissing, plastic cracking under pressure. A loud, sticky wreckage that demands attention. And for a second, I just… stare. Because of course. Of course he didn’t see me. He couldn’t. The memory hits hard — Seeing him months ago, walking with a stick. A guide beside him. Careful, measured steps where there used to be ease — each movement negotiated instead of assumed. He trips on the curb. Nearly goes down. My stomach drops with him — sharp, instinctive, useless. The guide catches him just in time, but the image sticks. It lingers. It unsettles into something deep and uncomfortable. Someone who could see perfectly fine… Now completely blind. And if anyone didn’t deserve it — It was Lee. A boy who never quite fit the mould. Gay. Quiet. A loner in the world. Too aware of himself — of how he was perceived, of how people edged away just enough to pretend they weren't. I always felt sorry for him. Still do. Which makes what I do next… worse. Because I should go over. Help. Apologise. Be human. Instead — I step back. Quietly. Selfishly. Desperately. “I’ve got things to get,” I tell myself. “My own boring life to get on with.” As if that makes it okay. As if that makes me better than this moment. The coat grows thicker. Heavier. By the time I reach the milk, I can feel it weighing me down. Not just physically — but something else. Something tighter. Then — yelling. Again. I close my eyes briefly. A small, useless protest against the inevitability of other people. “What now?” I mutter. “Can’t a woman shop in peace?” (as if I haven’t already proven I don’t particularly care what happens to anyone else in here.) I look down the aisle — — and there she is. Kate. Sitting in a large dog basket. Kicking her legs. Mid-breakdown. In the dairy aisle. Which feels… inconvenient. But also somehow fitting. “Of course,” I sigh quietly. School mum Kate. Writer Kate. Kate who begged me for my dream stories. Kate who then dropped off the face of the planet like I’d imagined her entirely. People are gathered around her. Soft voices. Gentle reassurances. She’s unravelled. Completely. And I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s always so… together. Her life neatly folded and tucked into place — creases pressed, edges aligned, nothing spilling out. But now? It’s all come loose. Thread by thread, with an audience. I hesitate. I almost go over. Almost kneel beside her, whisper something kind, something supportive. But then — I remember. The dodging. The distance. The way she slipped past me in the street like I was something to avoid. Not even subtle about it. And just like that — I turn away. Again. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” The voice is right next to my ear. I flinch, nearly dropping my basket. Kate. Standing beside me. Calm. Composed. Whole. Not in a dog basket. “But… weren’t you just—“ “—having a breakdown in the dairy aisle at Sainsbury’s,” she finishes, casually. “Yes. Some days are like that.” I glance back. The basket is empty. Of course it is. “Some days,” she continues, softer now, “you just need… humility.” The word lands heavy. I think of the old ladies. Of Lee. Of her. Of me. Watching. Avoiding. Choosing myself in the smallest, quietest, most cowardly ways. “It’s okay,” she says. “We can all be selfish.” There’s no judgment in it. Which somehow makes it worse. I nod slowly. Thinking of everything unspoken between us. The strange, silent game we’ve been playing — two people politely pretending not to notice each other noticing. Hide and seek without ever admitting it. “I guess so,” I say. A pause. Then, because I never learn: “What’s with the dog basket?” Her face drops slightly — just a flicker, but enough. And then — “What’s with the yeti coat?” Touché. And suddenly — I get it. The coat. The hiding. The way I’ve moved through this entire place like a spectator instead of a participant — present, but never involved. Every moment I chose not to step in. Every time I decided it wasn’t my problem. Every quiet retreat dressed up as self-preservation. The coat didn’t just grow. I fed it. Soft. Safe. Protective. And isolating. I look down at it now — this ridiculous, oversized armour of fluff and avoidance — and something in me shifts. Because it’s not just keeping people out. It’s keeping me in. I adjust my grip on the basket. Glance back down the aisle. At the mess. At the people. At the moments I walked away from — still there, still happening, with or without me. And for a second — just a second — I wonder what would happen… If I didn’t. If I let the coat shrink. If I stayed. If I chose — differently. But the coat sits heavy on my shoulders. Warm. Familiar. Earned. And I’m not sure yet… If I’m ready to take it off.