Mr R was in need of something more British than a bulldog with a knotted hanky on its head, singing god save the queen while clutching a pint of real ale; he wanted a good old fashioned bacon sarnie (amongst some other less important things like dinners).
So off I marched to Iceland, home of zero queues and full shelves. Reykjavik-tory was mine when I delivered the soft white bread and bacon as required which will make Mr R's self isolation that bit more bearable.