I went to the supermarket last night. Self Check Out, that was what finished me off. I quite fancied playing the grown up version of 'shopkeeper' with a full size check out and till, minus the plastic orange and minature box of cornflakes. Why can’t they let you choose the pre-recorded voice, somewhat like Satellite Navigation? The virtual check out assistant sounds so condescending.
‘Please scan the item’. I AM! It is not my fault the grapes are round and smaller than the barcode making it impossible to scan. ‘Please put the item in the bag’. OK. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE, I HAVE, look, it is in the bloody bag. ‘Please scan the item’ ‘Please scan the item’. I AM! Stop putting me under pressure. I am sweating in fear now. What if the assistant thinks I am trying to steal something by not scanning it? My gestures become extreme as I attempt to prove to everyone watching that I am trying to scan the item. I now resemble a playschool teacher reciting, ‘Wheels on the Bus’ with my overly exaggerated arm movements, whilst trying to look like I am in control and enjoying the whole ‘self check out’ experience. I am not. I am on a fast train to hell and there are no brakes.
‘Please enter the barcode’ WHAT! Oh struth, I can’t see it, where are my specs? Handbag! That is where they are. Putting your handbag on the scan screen is not a good idea. ‘Please scan the item’. It is my handbag, it is Italian and I refuse to pay for it, it was a present from my mother. ‘Please enter the barcode’. I am getting my specs, for gawd’s sake! Why is it that now you find the arm of your specs have broken off and that the only way of getting them to stay on is to put your head is at an angle of 45 degrees? ‘Please enter the barcode’. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a mother with two toddlers methodically working her way up and down the aisles, she is obviously shopping for the whole of Stamford. Head on one side, trying to read a 20-digit barcode, whilst holding item in one hand and typing with the other, praying broken specs, stay on nose is not a look conducive with a seasoned ‘self check out’ shopper. Three attempts later, ‘please put the item in the basket’. Yes, haven’t we been through this already? ‘Please scan the item’. The customer at the till next to me, smiles sweetly (as he is paying) ‘try wiping the screen’. I have turned into the store cleaner! I resist the urge to ask, with acidic undertones, ‘am I allowed to spit on the tissue first, it always worked with the children?’
Several items later, wonky glasses have now developed a precarious stance as they drift towards my left cheek. I am sweating as if I have just run a marathon. ‘Please wait for an assistant’. WHAT! I haven’t done anything. I look around for the assistant who is helping a 4-year-old reach the card payment machine; they obviously have a better clue than I do. ‘It says I have to wait for you’, ‘Yes dear, that is because you have alcohol, ooh are you having a party?’ ‘No, it’s been a hard day’. Look of horror quickly replaced by sympathetic glance from assistant.
All items eventually scanned and in the ‘Bag Area’, ‘How would you like to pay?’ What a daft question! Well, do you know what? I do not care. Have my credit card, here have the contents of my purse, re-mortgage my house and take the proceeds, I don’t care just let me go’.
Mother with toddlers is now passing through the exit doors with monstrous trolley full of shopping, packed and paid for. I, meanwhile, am considering returning into the supermarket to purchase a Gin and Tonic in a tin; with any luck, I could have drunk it before I reach the trolley park. Perhaps not. I am exhausted, stressed, broken out in a hot sweat and humiliated beyond belief by my own ineptitude. Sod it. I am going home. I shall grow my own food from now on; it could not be more stressful, could it?
‘Please scan the item’. I AM! It is not my fault the grapes are round and smaller than the barcode making it impossible to scan. ‘Please put the item in the bag’. OK. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE. ‘Please put the item in the bag’ I HAVE, I HAVE, look, it is in the bloody bag. ‘Please scan the item’ ‘Please scan the item’. I AM! Stop putting me under pressure. I am sweating in fear now. What if the assistant thinks I am trying to steal something by not scanning it? My gestures become extreme as I attempt to prove to everyone watching that I am trying to scan the item. I now resemble a playschool teacher reciting, ‘Wheels on the Bus’ with my overly exaggerated arm movements, whilst trying to look like I am in control and enjoying the whole ‘self check out’ experience. I am not. I am on a fast train to hell and there are no brakes.
‘Please enter the barcode’ WHAT! Oh struth, I can’t see it, where are my specs? Handbag! That is where they are. Putting your handbag on the scan screen is not a good idea. ‘Please scan the item’. It is my handbag, it is Italian and I refuse to pay for it, it was a present from my mother. ‘Please enter the barcode’. I am getting my specs, for gawd’s sake! Why is it that now you find the arm of your specs have broken off and that the only way of getting them to stay on is to put your head is at an angle of 45 degrees? ‘Please enter the barcode’. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a mother with two toddlers methodically working her way up and down the aisles, she is obviously shopping for the whole of Stamford. Head on one side, trying to read a 20-digit barcode, whilst holding item in one hand and typing with the other, praying broken specs, stay on nose is not a look conducive with a seasoned ‘self check out’ shopper. Three attempts later, ‘please put the item in the basket’. Yes, haven’t we been through this already? ‘Please scan the item’. The customer at the till next to me, smiles sweetly (as he is paying) ‘try wiping the screen’. I have turned into the store cleaner! I resist the urge to ask, with acidic undertones, ‘am I allowed to spit on the tissue first, it always worked with the children?’
Several items later, wonky glasses have now developed a precarious stance as they drift towards my left cheek. I am sweating as if I have just run a marathon. ‘Please wait for an assistant’. WHAT! I haven’t done anything. I look around for the assistant who is helping a 4-year-old reach the card payment machine; they obviously have a better clue than I do. ‘It says I have to wait for you’, ‘Yes dear, that is because you have alcohol, ooh are you having a party?’ ‘No, it’s been a hard day’. Look of horror quickly replaced by sympathetic glance from assistant.
All items eventually scanned and in the ‘Bag Area’, ‘How would you like to pay?’ What a daft question! Well, do you know what? I do not care. Have my credit card, here have the contents of my purse, re-mortgage my house and take the proceeds, I don’t care just let me go’.
Mother with toddlers is now passing through the exit doors with monstrous trolley full of shopping, packed and paid for. I, meanwhile, am considering returning into the supermarket to purchase a Gin and Tonic in a tin; with any luck, I could have drunk it before I reach the trolley park. Perhaps not. I am exhausted, stressed, broken out in a hot sweat and humiliated beyond belief by my own ineptitude. Sod it. I am going home. I shall grow my own food from now on; it could not be more stressful, could it?
