I love licorice. It comes a close second to chocolate in my personal candy ratings. I had a habit – in pre-COVID-19 days – of ducking into the small corner store on the home stretch after a long walk down to the sea. The store is small and friendly. There is often a dog waiting outside on a leash, and the newspapers become faded by the end of a hot, sunny day as their wire rack spills out of the store. The name Gourmet Deli is painted proudly above the awning which is, in my view, a slightly vainglorious title. I've bought the occasional piece of fruit, loaf of bread or litre of milk, but my most common reason for the diversion inside is to purchase a licorice strap to eat as a reward as I walk the last 500 metres home.

Each strap is 30c and in order to buy one I have to dig my slightly swollen and unwashed hands into the box at the shop counter – I have to bend down and find the container hidden between the Hubba-Bubbas and the strange Ritters Sport chocolates and Lara Bar selection.

That's right, my ungloved fingers separate the flexible straps of black sweet originating from the glycyrrhiza glabra plant and peel away a black belt for my consumption. The remaining stock lay ready for the next customer to fondle and reconfigure.

After successfully fishing one out, with those same fingers, I hand over a few coins to the cashier.

No, I don't need a receipt.

And depart.

I'm as happy as a clam as I saunter up the hill, eating my treat.

Those were the days my friend.

I thought they'd never end.