Occasional Scribbles

I really hate having to go shopping in the supermarket. Things are not what they used to be. 

There’s a new lad in my local Co Op.  You can tell he’s new because he is overly enthusiastic, “Oh good day to you Madam, my name is *Blah*, do you have a dividend card – thank you?” (All smiles).  I hand him my card cautiously.  I don’t want to be too friendly as I haven’t got the measure of him, yet.  He starts on my shopping and begins to tell me his life story, (yawn), as I load it into bags.  His cheerfulness is a bit annoying as he tells me that this is his first day on the job and stops putting my groceries through the electronic scanner because men find it hard to do more than one thing at a time;  a packet of peas goes by but stops midway in his hand as he explains that he isn’t very fast yet.  I begin to purse my lips, hoping to discourage yet more facts about him that I do not want to know and put my hand out for the peas.  “Oh, sorry”, he says, speeding up, seeing that I am getting slightly impatient.

He spies a bottle of Scotch with glee, knowing he is supposed to do something special when people of my age want to buy an alcoholic drink.  Suddenly, a bell goes off, a light starts flashing and he shoots his hand up in the air, like a school boy who knows he has the answer to a question, holding up my bottle of Scotch. He’s thrilled to bits that he hasn’t forgotten this part of the procedure and soon one of the old sour face women that live there, comes along to verify that I am (clearly), old enough to buy alcohol.  All rather embarassing on a Monday morning at 9am with other shoppers staring at me wondering if I am an alcoholic.  Once verified, the lad, apologises as if it’s all his fault, “Sorry about that Madam, it’s just that I’m on Till 17 which means I’m a learner and I have to have alcohol purchases checked,” he smiles at me.  Way too much information, I am thinking.  I already know this silly rule that makes old sour face feel important.

I’ve been shopping here for ten years.  I almost always buy similar shopping each week, at least the basics such as Scotch and cigarettes but you’d think I’d never bought such items before and that I clearly look under age as sour face gives me the once over, though she’s seen me a million times before, and grudging aproval.  I could kill her, I really could.  Not so long ago, I was buying my usual purchases as always, only this time there was one of the really annoying girls on the till.  She was about 16 and as she saw my Scotch and cigarettes, she suddenly decided to assert her authority and not allow me to buy them.  She put the Scotch and cigarettes to one side and rang the bell for sour face.  I asked what the problem was and she said that as I was accompanied by my son and his friend who she knew was under eighteen, she would not allow me to purchase the items in case I was buying them, illegally for the boys.  I was utterly amazed by this disgraceful acusation.  I had in fact only just bumped into my son and his friend and they had offered to help me carry my shopping to the car. I was not actually shopping with them, and the alcahol and cigarettes were for me, obviously.  But the little miss on the till wasn’t taking any chances. Sour face turned up and I explained the situation thinking, hopefully, she might have the good common sense to see the absurdity of the whole thing.  She didn’t.  Like the silly little missy, she couldn’t resist denying me my shopping even after I had reminded her that I had been purchasing the same shopping from the store each week for the last ten years with and without my children. “I’m sorry but I can’t over rule a member of staff” she said, beligerently, knowing that she could if she chose to.  I wondered why she had been called over, in that case.  There was a queue of people behind me by then so I reluctantly let it go. I was disappointed that no one tried to help me, not one of them made any protest about the situation which was so plainly rediculous.  The great British public turned shamefully the other way.

I too am ashamed.  I am ashamed that after being treated so shoddily, I ever set foot in the store again, but here I am, buying my Scotch, this time on my own.  The lad gives me the bottle.  I am looking evil by now as the memory of the previous incident springs to mind.  I sigh heavily and he stops smiling and babbling at me.  He manages to take my payment as I wisely pay in cash not wishing to witness his ineptitude if I pay with a card, let alone ask for ‘cashback’.  Feeling a little mean, I thank him.  His face lights up.  “It’s been a pleasure, Madam, have a nice day now.”

I walk away with my shopping.  “Good day Sir, do you have a dividend card….”?  I hear him chirping to the next customer.  He’ll soon learn poor wretch, I think to myself.  Won’t be long before he doesn’t even look up, let alone talk to a customer like the horrid little fatty that studies her nails in a sour bored fashion on the next till. Oh the joys of the supermarket.  It is high time we stood up to these pathetic bullys.