by Tazeen Ahmad
‘I’ve got six bags, I’m going to pack myself but you open the bags for me.’
And,
‘Why isn’t this belt working?’
And,
‘There’s my Nectar and a £2 voucher off the bakery stuff—you don’t need to check, I’m not lying.’
And,
‘More bags.’
And,
‘DON’T you dare put the fish next to the bread.’
And,
‘Pass the detergents to the right, please.’
Needless to say, there is also strategic laying of shopping on the belt and strategic packing into bags. The little conversation we do have she tells me she’s been coming here for twelve years. She is greeted warmly by various shop-floor staff and in between her chats with passing supervisors she instructs: ‘You can keep opening bags for me in case you feel guilty for not doing anything.’
A six-foot-tall man with a stomach that jiggles when he giggles has an intriguing theory about plastic bags and supermarkets’ pledges to cut down their usage. ‘It’s bloody supermarket hypocrisy. Pretending to care about the environment when they provide strawberries and raspberries all year round imported from all over the world. What about their carbon footprint, eh? You know why they don’t want to give them bags out? It’s because it costs so much to make them. M&S couldn’t wait to charge, and now they love it! It’s another way to make money. You lot are pretending to be environmentally conscious, but you’re not—it’s all about the money. Why do you think’—he picks up a bag and ruffles it—‘these are so thin and flimsy now? It’s because they’re made out of nothing. So, thanks, I’ll have your free bags and won’t be bringing any of my own. And no, I certainly won’t be buying any of yours.’ And with that he changes my entire world view.
Turnips have been troubling me for four months, so today I see if I can unlock their mystery. ‘Tracey, what kind of turnips are these?’ I say, holding the small white root vegetable with green and pink stains. ‘Scottish or Loose White?’
‘Darling, I have absolutely no idea. Do what a man in a brothel would do—pick whichever is cheapest.’
Colleagues are running around sporting egg-yolk yellow T-shirts promoting Sainsbury’s Finance, and there is frenetic activity about our name badges. Supervisors are darting about like headless chickens checking that all our tills are tidy and asking Cogs to tie their hair back.
Tracey’s been waiting for a tea break for some time and she’s now told she can go in a minute. Ten seconds later, Hayley comes over.
‘Sorry, Tracey, you can’t go yet. I’ll let you know in a bit.’ And Hayley scuttles off.
‘Go to tea, don’t go to tea, wear your shirt, don’t wear your shirt. I don’t know what’s going on today.’ Tracey’s annoyed, but shrugs it off with good humour.
‘What’s happening today—why the big panic?’ I whisper to her.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ she whispers back.
A young couple have some computer games in their trolley and it brings the total up to just over a hundred pounds. She chastises him for his £35 games. ‘Bloody hell, we haven’t even got the food shopping in yet.’ And she shoots him a you’re-in-big-trouble-the-minute-we-get-out-of-here look.
Customers ask one after the other to check their Nectar reward points. ‘Do I have anything to take off?’
‘I’ll just check.’ I check. ‘You have £5.’
Points are disappearing fast—everyone is spending them. She thinks about the fiver she has on in points and says, ‘I’ll have it off.’
‘Ooo errr…’ grins her one-track-minded husband.
It’s another beautiful spring day but the dramatic change in season has left many under the weather. Alongside all the medication that comes down the conveyor belt, there’s the stuff that makes me grin wickedly to myself. Haemorrhoid cream, thrush ointment, HRT vitamins, personal-hygiene wipes, extra-strong deodorant, condoms and whipped cream (last two are often bought together). Usually I scan, slide and pass the items as if they were just another can of baked beans, but in an unguarded moment I once lifted a bottle of intimate feminine wash to read the label, uncertain, as I was, of its function. It took a good few seconds before I realised the customer before me was looking intensely disconcerted. Today I struggle with a box of extra-sensitive condoms. They sit in a security container and I can’t get the thing open. If that isn’t bad enough, I have to call a supervisor. The customers behind are ogling, and the supervisor and I pretend we are not trying to facilitate a successful night-in for the customer. I never see him again.
A housewife who asks after my health has her own freight to off-load. ‘Oh yes, I’m tired too. I’ve been busy doing the housework all morning and I’ve got to do the school run later.’ She’s in her late forties with a neatly cut blonde bob and blue-rimmed glasses. She’s well spoken and well educated and has chosen to stay at home, but it’s clear that it’s a decision that sits uncomfortably with her. ‘I mean, I enjoy the freedom but it’s boring at times. There’s always something to do, but are they things that really need to be done? I don’t know. Cleaning, shopping, gardening, picking the kids up, going to the dry-cleaners—I feel like a robot fulfilling my function on earth—but could a machine do what I do? Yes, I think so. And does anyone value what I do? Not a soul…’
It’s coming up to three hours into my shift and I’m about to keel over with fatigue. The customer I’m serving has Pro-Plus, several cans of Bolt (Sainsbury’s version of Red Bull) and ten packets of two-minute meals. ‘Who needs an extra couple of hours’ kip or a freshly cooked meal—when all the answers are on this till?’ I say. He’s jumps out of his semi-dazed state and looks at me with gaping eyes. ‘It’s OK, I know exactly how you feel.’ I add.
Trolley Boy arrives and stands by a supervisor who is scrutinising some paperwork. He strokes her fringe repeatedly and they are both standing in silence. She has beautiful shiny black hair and he obviously thinks so too. She keeps looking down. He keeps stroking. It’s not exactly an act of intimacy and I feel like I’m watching a Tracey Emin installation—oddly fascinating, a little disturbing and totally incomprehensible. This continues for a whole minute and then it’s suddenly over. He approaches a customer I’m serving. ‘Your hair is beautiful that colour. Have you just coloured it?’ Hair is a thing with him.
‘Oh yes, yes. I have. Thank you for noticing.’
‘It really suits you. You look lovely.’
And he leans down, picks up the empty baskets by my tills and wanders off. ‘Isn’t he charming?’ I say to the blushing customer by my till.
‘He REALLY is,’ she gushes. ‘I’ve been coming here for ten years and he always comes over and has a little chat—usually about something off the wall, but I think he’s a very unique person. I gave him my phone number once and since then every year on my birthday, he texts me. I just can’t believe that he remembers it every single year. His ability to recall dates is remarkable. He should be working for the government, saving the world or something. They should devise a comic-book hero after him.’
‘I know! He could be Super-RAM,’ I say, surprising myself with my brilliant unexpected wit.
A woman struggles to open a plastic bag. ‘Do you get training in how to open bags?’ she asks earnestly.
‘Yup. Two whole days of it. In that time we’re taught how to lick our fingers, flick the bag and slip it open. It’s a real skill. Takes time to master.’ She looks slightly wounded. I’ve evolved into one of the over-tired toddlers that venture in on weekends—so exhausted that only a spectacular tantrum will make me feel better. Failing that, extreme petulance will suffice.
Still no break in sight. My next customer is a girl after my own heart: a former Tesco Cog with lots of tales about life at the till. ‘I worked there for ten years and the only thing I learnt is that customers talk to checkout girls like the dog crap stuck to their shoe. They don’t realise how nasty they can be or how upsetting it is. I used to cry in the toilets in th
e beginning, but after a while I started to stand up for myself.’
‘Well, I’m not there quite yet, but I do get traumatised straight after something happens and then can’t concentrate for the next hour.’
She laughs. ‘It’s like post-traumatic stress disorder. I went through the same thing. It’s all that shouting, telling you off and throwing their cards and cash at you—and just never, EVER, being able to say anything back.’ She sighs. ‘It’s depressing just thinking about it again—it used to happen at least once a shift.’
‘That sounds about right.’
‘I’m a sales assistant in clothing and it’s so much better.’ She smiles brightly. ‘Don’t worry, darling, you’ll escape too.’
It’s after school time and teenagers are piling in for a fix of sugary drinks and salty crisps. Three school girls come to the till with chocolate brownies, cheese-and-onion crisps and fairy cakes. Behind them is a customer who spends £8.24 and then goes to the toilet. Samantha finally emerges and tells me to go on my break. As I’m closing my till the customer emerges.
‘Did you give me my school vouchers?’
‘Um…er…I don’t know now—how much did you spend?’
‘Over £8.’
‘I’m sorry no—you get one voucher for every £10 you spend. It doesn’t look like you spent enough.’
‘I don’t understand. One…voucher…for?’
Samantha butts in.
‘Listen, love, you’ve got to spend £10. You didn’t. So you get nothing. Now, excuse this young lady. She needs to go on her break.’ And with that she ushers me on my way.
I’m standing in the canteen gloomily contemplating the soggy tuna sandwich and dried-out Cornish pasty in the sandwich dispenser when Barbara appears at the coffee machine.
‘You all right, love?’ she asks me chirpily.
I manage to choke out a reply.
‘Yes, fine thanks. I’m starving, but these don’t look good.’
‘Yeah, it’s really unhealthy here—this canteen is rubbish.’
I turn towards the chocolate and crisp machine.
‘I’ve got a sausage roll in the fridge, if you’d like it,’ she offers. ‘But it’s pork—you probably don’t eat pork,’ she continues sweetly.
‘No, I don’t, but that is really very nice of you.’ I’m genuinely touched. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘Well, I’ve got a packet of nuts if you want that instead?’
‘Thanks, Barbara, but I’ll get some crisps from here. You save it for yourself. Thank you though.’
As far as Barbara is concerned, it seems I may have finally earned my stripes.
Twenty minutes later I’m back on the shop floor orbiting the soup aisle trying to locate Cup-a-Soup. Susie appears out of nowhere—except she doesn’t look much like Susie. Gone is her over-sized orange fleece jacket and the neatly tied back hair. In its place are a tight black top with a large belt tucking her ample bosom in, tight black jeans and a little blue cropped jacket. Her hair falls in soft curls around her shoulders—she has make-up on and is glowing. She beams when I tell her how exquisite her downtime guise is. She looks like a cover girl—albeit for Women’s Weekly. When I get back to my till, Barbara walks past and gives me a wink. There is too much love in the room and I feel distinctly unsettled.
Connor has been snared and is now sitting at the checkout behind me. He, like most of the other checkout guys, loathes being on till duty. It takes him away from his main goal while here, which is to score with as many of the fairer Cogs as possible. Sitting at a checkout, forced into small talk with grannies, housewives and middle-aged men, just cramps his style on the shop floor.
‘They got you eventually, then?’
‘Yeah, well, at least I got to skive all afternoon.’
‘Not now, though—there’ll be no escape.’
‘And probably for the rest of my shift too, because of “the visit”.’
Before I can ask him what he means, we’re interrupted by customers. One of these customers tells me what the frenzy has been about today. She has a friend who works at the store, who told her that a bigwig from head office has been paying a visit. That explains the wide-scale panic about fully occupied tills, name tags, T-shirts and tidy checkouts. I turn to share this with Connor but he seems to have shrunk a foot.
‘Connor, why are you sitting so low? You look ridiculous.’ His head is only just above the till belt.
‘My chair’s just got stuck—it’s the lowest level and I can’t get it to move.’ He tugs and jostles the chair.
‘You look like a mole peeping out the top of his hole,’ I giggle. ‘Customers are going to die laughing.’
He doesn’t find it quite so funny—but every time I turn to look at him I crack up.
I take my trolleyload of shopping to Jane’s till and we compile a list we call ‘Ten Things I Hate about You—Dear Customer’:
1. Reaction to the cost of shopping. Some variety would be good.
2. Saying ‘Oh I’m sorry, I forgot my bags!’ Followed by guilty blabbing.
3. Asking ‘Why are the shelves empty?’ And then holding Cog accountable.
4. Responding to a disingenuous ‘How are you today?’ with a genuine ‘I don’t feel good today.’
5. Trying to use more than one voucher per transaction and/or out-of-date vouchers. Forcefully.
6. Insisting you have more Nectar reward points than you do. Forcefully.
7. Urging us to speed up (using hostile body language rather than words).
8. Asking us to slow down (using hostile body language and words).
9. Assuming Cog is guilty before proved innocent—applies to a variety of problems.
10. Pin-pad innuendo. It’s like going from 0-60—good for cars, bad for Cogs. ‘Not even if you’re rich and handsome,’ we agree.
And because Jane is drop dead gorgeous she adds another—‘Always trying to pull us. Even the old ones.’
Saturday, 21 March 2009
I’m rebelling today by wearing my own black trousers because my Sainsbury’s pleats are in the wash. I am also held up in horrendous traffic. I call the absentee line and cross my fingers because the response is entirely luck of the draw. ‘It’s no problem,’ I get told today.
Once I get in, I see that there are swarms of us running late. In the end I’m only delayed by three minutes—which wouldn’t raise an eyebrow in most jobs. Here, though, it’s often a cardinal sin.
Martina is handing out leaflets at the front. I make sympathetic sounds. She tells me she’s been there for an hour already and is stuck there until two. She’ll have been on her feet for two and a half hours in total. ‘It could be worse,’ she tells me. How? I don’t say aloud. I walk to the tills with a cluster of Cogs.
‘I’m really not in the mood for tills today.’
‘Yeah, all that “Hi! Have a nice day.” Can’t be bothered with it.’
‘Have a nice day! I don’t give a shit if they’ve had a nice day.’
When we get to the till captain, Barbara is barking orders at record speed.
‘YOU take till 10. YOU’RE on 5. Here’s another for baskets—take 2. YOU’RE relieving 24…’
Elderly couples who missed their chance to come in during the week are rushing through the tills like the plague is at their heels. One couple are so daunted by the queues building up behind them, they fumble nervously for their change, decide not to look for their Nectar card and muddle up their pin number. Another old lady types and re-types her pin incorrectly and is close to both tears and abandoning her shopping. ‘Take your time,’ I whisper to her about the crowd behind. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with them.’
A couple try to get me to give them more points because they have really large bags. ‘It doesn’t matter if your bag is the size of this supermarket, it’s still just the one bag,’ I tell them. They smile awkwardly and I wonder why I’m reverting to type again; I immediately grant them three points.
It’s Mother’s Day to
morrow, so those who didn’t make a gargantuan cock-up last week are buying their cards and flowers today. One man buys a huge pink Hydrangea planter—a British garden bloom. ‘Get you and your great big impressive flowers,’ I say, making a note to myself about my own mother. Another customer is planning her ‘Mother’s Day strike’ tomorrow. I talk flowers, cards and mums until I’ve covered every conceivable angle on mothering. Women buying gifts for both Mum and Mum-in-law ensure the former gets the better pick. I consider pointing this out and decide it will probably not go down well, no matter how I put it, so I savour the amusement from this privately.
One woman tells me she’ll pay for her Mother’s Day cards after all the groceries have gone through. She hangs on to them at the end of the till. I put her shopping through and she packs, pays and leaves. A minute or so after she’s gone, I realise she didn’t pay for her cards. And try as I might to shrug it off, it continues to irk me for the rest of the day.
A housewife who comes in every Saturday is at my till again. She has a mouth with an inbuilt megaphone and her voice echoes around the store the minute she enters. Today Megaphone Mum decides to pick a fight with another customer. The lady in front of her has left her trolley and gone to fetch a forgotten item. When she returns, Megaphone Mum has started loading her groceries on the belt.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, but I was next in the queue,’ says customer who-dared-to-leave-trolley-in-queue.
‘BUT YOU LEFT YOUR STUFF AND WENT AWAY, SO HOW WAS I TO KNOW?’
Everyone in a ten-mile radius stops to look.
‘YOU CAN’T JUST DUMP YOUR SHOPPING AND GO AWAY.’
The lady who connived to keep her place in the queue looks more shell-shocked than a trauma victim.
‘I HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE DO THAT—IT’S SO SELFISH.’
Customer stares at floor, willing it to open and swallow her whole.
‘AND THEN THE REST OF US WHO ARE QUEUING UP THE RIGHT WAY HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL YOU COME BACK.’