I’ve chosen the self-checkout because I’ve only got a few things. This is an important part of the story. At the beginning, I believe I’m saving time. There’s a staffed till open, but someone has a reasonably full trolley and I don’t want to wait behind them so I think the self serve option will be quicker. Fairly logical, I can scan my own shopping I’ve managed it before. How difficult can it be?
I do as instructed on the screen. I put my bag down in the bagging area.
“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”
Oh Lordy. We haven’t even started scanning the shopping yet.
I remove the bag. The machine asks me to put my bag in the bagging area. I put it back, slightly differently, in case its objection was to the angle. I need a member of staff. I look around with that ‘help! I can’t work the machine!’ look on my face.
A lovely woman comes over, scans her badge and presses something. Whatever I’ve done has been forgiven by the machine, although neither of us is quite sure what it was.
I scan the milk. That goes well. Encouraged, I scan the bread and put it in the bag.
“Please place the item in the bagging area.”
Pretty sure I just did. So I lift it out and put it back, because perhaps the machine wasn’t looking the first time.
“Please wait for assistance.”
The lovey (and now very patient with me woman) returns. I give her the apologetic smile people develop when they’re repeatedly asking someone to come and witness their groceries. She presses a button. The machine is happy once again. Yay!
I now scan the wine. Now, this interruption I was expecting. Someone needs to check I’m old enough to buy it. Fair enough. I do think my face and greying hair provides fairly compelling evidence, but I appreciate that the machine can’t simply take one look and say, “Christ, yes. Let her have the wine”
The woman comes back. At this stage I’m pretty sure I saw the ‘eye roll of despair’ flash across her face but she’s too well trained and polite to show it so I can’t be sure. That said I now feel that we’re getting to know each other quite well but I can’t help think that if I’d gone to the human till in the first place, I’d have probably finished and paid by now. Instead, the lovely woman is supervising my work in instalments.
She approves the wine and goes to help someone whose machine is flashing red. There are several flashing red now. From a distance, I think the whole area must look quite Christmassy. I carry on determined to get out of the shop with my few bits. Something won’t scan. I flatten the packet, find the barcode and pass it over the reader again. Then again, more slowly, because evidently I was rushing it or not doing it quite right.
Nothing.
So I change the angle. I smooth a crease. I’m now presenting a packet of cheese from every conceivable direction, like a proud parent trying to get a baby to look at the camera. Eventually, it beeps twice. Bugger. I’ve bought two cheeses. But I only have one cheese. I need the woman, again.
By this point, I’m keeping an eye on where she is before attempting anything ambitious. She’s helping a man who has put something down without permission. Behind her, another customer is holding a bag in mid-air, afraid to make the next move. I understand their position entirely. When she reaches me, I explain about the cheese.
“It’s gone through twice.”
She removes one. I thank her with rather more feeling than the transaction warrants. This time I definitely got the eye roll. I know I did.
Anyway, I’m thinking that there are three items left. I’m so close now that I begin to feel hopeful, which is a silly mistake. One is very light – it’s a birthday card, and the scales refuse to accept that anything has happened. So I put it down more firmly and with some flourish this time in the hope that the weight will be recognised.
Apparently, it still doesn’t exist. I’m tempted to lean on the bagging area to lend it some substance, but I suspect this would create further questions. Across the aisle, the person with the full trolley is paying at the staffed till. Of course they are.
Anyway, eventually, everything has been scanned, weighed, approved or personally vouched for. I press “Pay” with the relief of someone reaching the end of a moderately difficult exam. The machine asks whether I have a loyalty card. Yes, yes I do. Somewhere. I find it in amongst all the other loyalty cards I have shoved in my purse which I’ve been meaning to sort out. I find it and scan it.
I pay, collect my shopping and check that I haven’t left anything behind. The woman is already dealing with another red light. I want to tell her she’s been marvellous. She has, after all, helped me buy a loaf of bread, some milk, wine and one cheese. It’s been a joint effort really.
The machine thanks me for shopping. You’re welcome. I’m pretty sure I qualify for the staff discount for my work here.
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