Has anyone actually successfully used a self-service checkout?

NAOMI SAFFERY

A couple of years ago I had an epiphany in my local supermarket. I was standing in the cereal aisle pondering the merits of muesli over porridge when it dawned on me: the weekly supermarket shop is the event of my week. My social life took second place to it and I positively bounced out of the office on ‘supermarket night’, as I coined the experience.

“Why is this?” I hear you cry. How is it that this young woman could find enjoyment in zig-zagging up and down aisles filled with prunes, pasta and pantyliners? Well, long ago my mum used to take me along with her to ‘help’ with the weekly shop. I would gaze at the forbidden fruits, marshmallows, bags of ‘funsize’ chocolates and out of season strawberries, instructed that I was “only” to go and get the loo roll “and nothing else!”

So, then, as a grown-up, I found I had free reign. This did often mean that I ended up with completely mismatching ingredients – but you would be surprised at how enterprising this made me in the kitchen. Nothing made me happier than opening the fridge the next day and having ‘options’.

The supermarket was my playground. Until the self-service checkouts moved in.

Now, I am not anti-change. But I am anti-inconvenience and definitely anti-stupidity. In order to fully offload the sheer devastation and outrage that I feel, I have to go back to the start.

A few months ago four self-service checkouts were installed. What a good idea, I thought to myself – people with baskets can use those while I, with my trolley load of random produce, will merrily use the old checkouts. Very convenient and efficient.

But then the self-service checkouts multiplied. Six more were installed, replacing three old checkouts. The scales were tipped and the queues rampaged out of control down the aisles. The people manning the remaining tills couldn’t cope.

Panic and mayhem ensued as the self-service machines started accusing shoppers of placing “unexpected items in the bagging areas” while repeatedly begging confused customers to “place items in the bagging area”. I watched as an 80-year-old man had to wait for 10 minutes to be IDd for his bottle of whisky as the self-service machine couldn’t see his age.

I almost wept. Gone were the halcyon days of my ritualised supermarket experience. Now I was scanning my goods in a panic so as to not be caught out by that ever-threatening “unexpected item” which could throw the whole thing off course. The queue backed up behind me as I fumbled with my wallet, the machine repeatedly screaming at me to “take my items”, just to reinforce the sense of panic.

“I got a response. I won’t go into detail, but I had to pour myself something large and strong as a result.”

I thought it would change as we all got used to fewer checkouts and more self-service machines. It didn’t, and I snapped. I donned my ‘Angry of London’ cap and sat down to write an exhaustive email to let them know exactly how they had failed me and shoppers throughout the land. And yes, I was hoping for some vouchers.

I waited for the response – after all, they would be worried, I was a valid customer who should be listened to. I had threatened to take my custom elsewhere. If anything, I thought, it would get me 20 quid off my next shop. But, no.

I got a response. I won’t go into detail, but I had to pour myself something large and strong as a result. Here is a particular sentence which amused me (once the drink had taken effect): “They have appointed checkout captains who are there to help at the checkouts.” Oh, well, that’s alright then. We now have ‘captains’. Thank god, because I was worried we might be left to the mercy of a shop assistant.

They added (and here is where I really wanted to shove their patronising email where the sun don’t shine): “I hope that the next time you visit our store you notice a huge improvement in our service. I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

Oh, do you? Do you really? You want to see me again do you? Cut the personal touch rubbish – this isn’t Open All Hours. What you actually want is for me to have no contact with anyone at all, hence the self-service checkouts which, my friend, negate any notion of ‘our service’; you have put the ‘self’ in service. So it’s about me now, and I am going to put loads of “unexpected items” in your bagging area – unless you send me that voucher. Read more by Naomi.

Image: Suat Eman / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Why is it so hard for people and shops to accept tall women?

SHELLY BERRY: There’s a widely held assumption in our society that women enjoy shopping. Apparently we love trawling the shops looking for a bargain or the perfect outfit for a special night out. I admit I do enjoy the odd trip to the shops when I don’t need anything in particular, but fancy treating myself to something shiny.

Then there are the days when I realise that my everyday black pumps are on their last legs, or I need some dainty sandals for a friend’s wedding. Ah yes, I hear you cry, the trauma of finding the perfect footwear to complement the perfect outfit. But that isn’t my complaint. My complaint is my whopping size 9 feet.

Those of you with the same predicament will understand. For those of you with average size 6s, let me explain: most shoe shops only go up to a size 8. Which means those of us who have been blessed with clown feet are decidedly limited on where we can turn to in our hour of need.

There is a handful of retailers who have cottoned on to the big-footed woman’s need to have pretty shoes. Next have saved me from granny-fied, over-priced shoe hell on more than one occasion. This week I acquired a pair of funky black sequinned ballet pumps and am hankering after some rather fetching strawberry-print wellies. I just need to justify buying them.

But this is not where my shopping misery ends. You see, not only do I have huge feet, but I am also 5’11’’. Which means I take an inside leg measurement of about 34’’. Oh, poor you, the petite among you may mock. But you forget it is a lot easier to take up a pair of jeans than it is to lengthen them.

Luckily when I was a teenager I discovered Long Tall Sally and at the age of 15 was able to buy a pair of women’s trousers that actually covered my ankles for the first time since I was about 11. 15 years later the number of stores with a “Tall” section has increased. There are now at least five I can think of, anyway (again Next gets top marks).

So when I do need a new pair of bootlegs, at least I only have a handful of shops I have to traipse around, and just keep my fingers crossed that one of them has a pair that fit me on the waist AND around the bum – a problem I think all women are familiar with.

So, I have big feet and long legs. And I have managed to find satisfactory solutions to these shopping challenges. But, alas, it doesn’t end there.

Last weekend Him Indoors very kindly offered to buy me some new underwear for Valentine’s Day. Although touched by the romantic gesture, my heart sank at the thought. Ungrateful cow? Not exactly. The thing is, not only do my feet and legs offer me dilemmas on the high street, but so do my boobs. I have a broad back, but little tits. Hopeful that the former had miraculously shrunk and the latter filled out since my last underwear shopping trip, I headed over to M&S to get measured, fella in tow.

“So, what are you wearing now?” the slightly harassed bra lady asked me.

“38A.”

With a sharp nod she whipped out her tape measure and got down to business. I held my breath.

“Well, 38 is spot on ... but an A might be a bit big for you.”

Whaaaaat? Are you trying to tell me my boobs have shrunk to near non-existent? This is the equivalent to telling a man that his willy has dropped off. And what is worse, finding a 38A bra is near impossible. A 38AA ... it ain’t gonna happen. You see, according to the lingerie industry, women with broad backs don’t have little boobs. I am officially a freak of nature.

I emerged from the changing room with a brave smile plastered across my face. Him Indoors looked at his watch. He was clearly regretting his romantic gesture. 10 minutes later I returned with every bra I could find in a 38A, praying that my bambino baps would fill at least one of them. Luckily, they did. Just about. No chicken fillets needed.

An hour and a half after arriving, we finally left the shop, Him Indoors officially shopped out, me officially with smaller tits.

So ladies, there you have it. Struggle to find a pair of jeans that make your arse look great? Unconvinced by the shoes in season at the moment? Can’t choose between a balcony and a push up? Trust me, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Read more by Shelly.

SELINA NWULU: OK so here’s the deal: I am tall. And while memories of childhood taunts are long gone, I’m often left wondering why people seem to have such a problem with it.

I am a tall lady and, shock horror, along with that I have a brain. You wouldn’t think that such a combination would be cause for concern. Maybe it could even be a cause for celebration, but sometimes I feel like I'm treated like some Frankenstein freak from the wild west.

Picture the scene: hundreds of small villagers running haphazardly, screaming: “Who’s that! She’s tall and has something to say! She’s broken the stereotypical mould! She’s not dainty and precious! She can open the jam jar by herself! Ruuunnn!”

I’m exaggerating, I know. But believe it or not, on some level this is true. I’ve managed to get over the same old tired wisecracks from the condescending family friend (“What’s the weather like up there, chief?”) and childhood nicknames such as Daddy Longer Legs (I lied – I’m not over it). But I do have a problem with the frank male friends who say things like “Selina, you’e OK, you are still a little under 6 foot so you’re not that bad ... just so long as you are not over 6 foot ... A woman over 6 foot? Ha! Now, that’s just weird!” I spoke to someone who actually shuddered at the idea. It seems to be this deep irrational fear that people, men in particular, seem to have.

Sure, equality seems all very good on well on the packet. “Men and women are equal but different” is the line. Man is strong and heroic while the woman is weak, dainty and mild. A Polly Pocket sized shape of loveliness. Suddenly here comes the modern age and that same woman can look you in the eyes because she is the same height as you and doesn’t need your protection and suddenly man gets all panicky and insecure. It’s really ridiculous!

And heaven forbid that I would want to wear heels. People look at me like I’m insane: why would someone like me want to bother with something like that? What’s the point, right? Never mind that those shoes go well with my outfit. I should spend my whole life glued to Croc pumps, it would seem.

I remember at school a woman actually suggested that being over 5’7” was unladylike. Is there some kind of underground network of ladylike, pearl-wearing dames who are handing out charts and posters full of this ridiculous and nonsensical information? Perhaps there is some kind of chart similar to the ape-to-man chart about human evolution – but instead of the ape there’s a picture of a tall woman (in my head I’m picturing someone like Vicky Pollard), rough and unkempt, and then the woman gets progressively smaller until we reach the other end of the scale where there is a pocket-sized, Joan Collins-esque woman?! It’s almost as though this silly woman was telling me that because I’d skipped the obligatory elocution classes that of course every young lady should have, being tall is some kind of punishment with which I now have to contend.

When I was living in Italy – maybe this is my fault for choosing to live in a country renowned for its short people – I was mid salsa class, watching the instructor teach everyone a new move. My dance partner, who wasn’t nice so he shall be named Short Arse, stopped the whole class and said “Excuse me, but how am I supposed to dance with her?” while looking me up and down with disdain. Well, I’m sorry, Short Arse, but if you had a bit of rhythm and a back bone it wouldn’t be a problem! Don’t blame my height!

The icing on the cake was at a night out, not so long ago. I was, stop the press, wearing heels, and I was getting my groove on and cutting a few shapes on the dance floor. A man came up to me – he wasn’t very nice either and so shall be named Short Arse Two – and said: “I was going to ask you to dance with me but as you are wearing heels, I won’t. How many people approach you in those heels?”

I think my stunned rage couldn’t quite believe the presumptuous gall of Short Arse Two, but I turned and said something along the lines of “keep walking, Shorty. I like being tall and, heels on or off, I wouldn’t dance with someone who looks like the third Chuckle Brother” and then I casually walked back to join some friends at the bar.

You see, that’s the thing: never underestimate the power of a tall girl’s strut, especially when she is wearing heels. Read more by Selina.

Administration is the redundancy of the mind of woman

SAM PECZEK

It’s getting past the point of ridiculous. You know the place; where the other people are starting to glance at you only ever from one side, when they think you’re not looking. And not always when you’re mumbling tricky things in a delicate tone. Sometimes it’s all the time. Do they know? Oh gosh, maybe they know.

I’ve noticed an increasingly pesky pattern to the time that’s unfolding itself all around my humble existence. It’s as if my mind has been split in half, like in a Stephen King novel that’s been ripped off by one of those other ones - Koontz, or Layman; those guys you tend to reverse back over when you accidentally pulverise them in your vehicle of choice.

So, week one, it’s all OK. Things may well be rolling all over the place, but mostly you can see which ones to grasp at. Week two, and everything is broken, mashed and rotting into the floorboards. But that’s okay; week three will roll on soon, and the mess will be covered by a thin veneer of Try Again. Week 17 and the tedium of hopeful week/car crash week is beginning to chew away at the fraying seams of your soul.

And so you’re back inside the working walls once more. You sort of know things are not off to a promising start as now your left eye is twitching along – though not in synch – with your other eye. The right one. But they’re both maddeningly wrong, what with the twitching. You’re probably quite tired, but it’s gone past the point of fatigue and into that dangerous territory that deceives you into thinking you’re hyper awake and ready for every little thing willing to throw itself in your path. Reality is lurking in the sidelines, sneaking glimpses of your symptoms as they stumble over each other in a lovely pile of all that has gone so horribly, horribly, wrong. Your brain has slowed down; concentration has been obliterated; and the twitchy eye thing is lending a menacing air to your not so calm façade. That’s a lie; you don’t have a façade to shield yourself with anymore. You probably dropped it somewhere in the debris of the previous bad week. Twat.

You know things have taken an all more sinister turn when you struggle with the sort of tasks that maybe you’re not meant to be doing anyway, like opening a bin liner and HAVING TO ASK FOR HELP. You know there are more examples of your brain decay meets workplace humiliation that you could list, but they’ve already slipped away into a dark place, where they belong.

Things take a less heartening turn when you start typing things like ‘early onset dementia’ into Google, and in more desperate moments, ‘stop eye twitching’ (they refuse). Turns out that your collection of symptoms - the shoddy memory, shameful attention span, the general slowing down of the inner mind cogs – are mostly down to that delightful mix of tiredness and Gloom. This might also, you hope, account for your seesawing perspective, which is starting to edge its way that little bit closer to a not so temporary species of madness.

So take heart, my unemployed friends; those jobs you’re lusting after are in the reassuringly incapable hands of people just like me. With each day my grip loosens it becomes a tiny bit easier to pry my fingers out of your way, before swooping in to show them how it’s done. You know, by someone in possession of proper IT skills and a peppy phone manner. Things I may have pretended to have at some point, or maybe even did have, but exchanged for the myriad joys that being an idiot brings.

Just wait, five months down the line you’ll start to flag and flail; that spring in your step will slowly slide into a limp, and you’ll find yourself on the verge of a nervous breakdown because you suddenly find yourself totally unable to open a bin liner. My advice? Keep schtum; don’t let them know that it’s taunting you. Try to overlook that fact that it’s not biodegradable and will outlive you by a trillion years or so. That’s a hollow victory, and after all, you’re better than a plastic bag. Probably.

Chin up.

Read more by Sam.

Image: www.freeimages.co.uk.

Age is wasted on the old

SHERMAINE WILLIAMS

Good thing that I’m grumpy now because I can’t imagine why I would be when I get older. I’m not entirely sure what all the codgers have to complain about.

I actually can’t wait to attain codger status because I imagine it to be akin to the portrayal by Jenny Joseph in her wonderful poem Warning.

I’m looking forward to experiencing the pleasure that must come from tutting and complaining about the insolent youngsters who have the audacity to sit in one of the precious front seats of the bus. A feeling that can only be improved on by bluntly declining any audacious offer of a seat on the basis that “I’m not that old!” Outrage hurts so good.

It must be such a delight to start conversations with random strangers, fully expecting them to engage in chat about the weather, my dog’s bad leg, my bad back and/or the price of Spam. I can’t wait to give people advice that they don’t ask for merely because I am older and wiser – I’d have seen it all and know when someone was making a mistake. Codger status will come with the knowledge of the correct way to do anything and everything.

It’s this comprehensive knowledge that will give me free reign to berate anyone who crosses my path if they have done wrong – my opinion of what constitutes ‘wrong’, of course – and point out where they have fallen short. In view of it being for their own benefit and because of my age, I’ll go in all guns blazing and expect no comeback no matter how horrendous I am perceived to be (merely perceived because, in reality, I’ll be a harmless old lady).

I’ll pull my wheeled trolley round after me wherever I go, especially when I choose to ignore designated crossings for the sake of shuffling across the road wherever I feel like it, forcing traffic to stop and wait for the time that it takes for me to get to the other kerb. I’m so looking forward to using said trolley to rumble along in the middle of the pavement, failing to make way for anyone attempting to pass by me. They have to wait – what have they got to hurry for anyway?

And despite me not being in a hurry, that won’t stop me from fulfilling my right to queue jump, pushing in on the basis that “I’m old and can’t stand for long periods on account of my bad feet”. This will be one of several ailments that I’m afflicted with, but I’ll gain great pleasure in complaining about them at every opportunity, including the random strangers I just love to engage.

Trips to the Doctor’s office are fun and will be so numerous that I’ll get my very own seat in the waiting room.

I think it will be a lot of fun complaining about the good old days when everyone spoke English, but see no irony in going abroad and shouting at people in order to be understood.

Ahh, the life of a pensioner – expecting instant respect for no reason other than their age. They don’t know they’re born. Read more by Shermaine.

Why do kids want to grow up to be WAGs?

CHESS TAYLOR

I had a toy farm when I was a kid – a scale toy farm. It was my pride and joy. I’d meticulously construct haynets from bits of cotton, pitchforks from twigs and safety-pins, fill the sheep dip with water and the stables with straw (or sawdust for housing those with a dust allergy). It was the bane of my parents’ lives; my mum lived in fear of knocking livestock over with the Hoover and my dad didn’t hear a news report or game of rugby that wasn’t interspersed with animal noises for a good 18 months.

I would declare: “When I grow up I want to be a farmer. No! I want to be a vet who’s married to a farmer and has lots of horses and dogs and I can sing to them!”

This was a few steps on from the initial “When I grow up I want to be a pony.”

These days, however, it seems that little girls’ aspirations are not quite so ... childlike. They want to be somebody, not in the sense of an astronaut or a teacher, but famous. And rich. I recently read that most girls now dream of pop stardom or being a WAG. I’m not arrogant enough to dismiss being a chart sensation as a career but it and WAGdom (and the sentiment behind the aspiration) have two common factors: fame and money. The talent element doesn’t seem to feature as highly as the desire for big hair, an even bigger house and enough jewellery to give B.A. Baracus a run for his money. Kids still want to become the people they look up to; it’s just that the objects of their admiration have altered somewhat.

Celebrity gossip magazines and Big Brother et al put a bit of a nasty taste in my mouth. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a snob, and in fact furtive glances at the Daily Mail’s online TV and showbiz section are a bit of a guilty pleasure of mine (and apparently of my sister’s although this took much gentle coaxing for her to confess) but I really object to the fact that becoming well known can take little more than a seedy kiss-and-tell or falling out of Mahiki flashing your bits after a stint on a low-rent reality show.

The part that I don’t simply object to but find, quite frankly, upsetting is that young girls look at those women, that lifestyle and want a part of it without realising that, by and large, it’s ... well, kind of skanky and, over and above picking one’s preferred shade of nail varnish/ tan, not exactly brain-taxing.

“Hey kids, get fake tits, shag a footballer and live the dream!”

What’s wrong with wanting to be a brain surgeon or SpongeBob Squarepants? Read more By Chess.

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

OMG: down wth txtspeak b4 I PMSL. LOL!!!

ROSIE MCGEE

Text language in general is a source of constant irritation to me. Any action that demonstrates laziness immediately gets on my nerves. The concept that life is easier in a world of barely comprehensible English, all for the sake a saving a few seconds, is nothing short of plain wrong.

However, I know the tide is going against me. I can no longer uphold my policy of refusing to reply to messages or emails written in pigeon - sorry ‘text’ - English. I might now acknowledge it, but I don’t have to like it.

My real gripe centres on how moronic it makes the user sound. Every time I see “C U l8r” I imagine someone in a padded cell munching on a crayon. Contrary to what many older people think, it’s not an age thing. Some of us younguns are card-carrying members of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to English. But we’re in the minority.

Despite my best intentions, I find myself sometimes writing BRB, NP and so on. On the flipside abbreviated swearing does at least have the handy benefit of sneaking past email filters. I can safely type: “WTF was so and so doing? FFS!” to my friends’ work email addresses without fear of getting them into any trouble with the profanity monitors downstairs in IT.

“I don’t think I actually involuntarily laugh out loud more than once a month.”

All of these linguistic infractions are minor irritations which pale into insignificance compared to the most annoying of them all: LOL.

I didn’t realise that the internet, along with completely revolutionising how we obtain information and communicate with others, also made every single thing in the entire world funny. Not just mildly amusing, bring a smirk to your face, or even a gentle chortle but LAUGH OUT LOUD funny.

I’m not an especially miserable person but I still don’t think I actually involuntarily laugh out loud more than once a month, at most. Maybe I’m moving in the wrong circles and need to urgently start associating with people so titillating that once around them I am totally incapable of controlling my desire to guffaw.

So, it amazes me that everyone else, according to their typing, is perpetually in a state of rolling around the carpet, tears streaming down cheeks, because life is just that bloody hilarious.

Then a few days ago, somehow, it actually got worse. Through my favourite social networking site I started to see, along with the veritable plethora of LOLs, a smattering of PMSLs - always written after statements that were in no way comic. It slowly but steadily increased. Finally curiosity got the better of me and I looked it up on the miraculous internet.

PMSL = Pissing My Self Laughing.

New lows, people. It wasn’t bad enough to give the world the mental image of the masses permanently impersonating hyenas. No, now we have widespread incontinence to add to that. The executives at Tenna are probably reserving brand-spanking new Caribbean villas in gleeful anticipation.

I know we’ve all been guilty of thoughtlessly using language. Who hasn’t gone out on a Friday night and got ‘shit-faced’? Think about that picture that conjures up in your mind’s eye for a moment. At least a loss of bladder control is marginally less disgusting.

What really irks me is this totally over the top habit, which seems to have infiltrated our English, of exaggerating everything. Now, even the most mundane of statements seems to require an exclamation mark! It makes any old sentence more exciting and shocking! So for something slightly genuinely exclamation-worthy you’ll need three of them!!! Followed by a capitalised OMG in there too - just to make sure you got the message across!

It’s got so bad that now the sight of the triple exclamation mark fills me with such disgust that I can feel my angry vein twitching in my temple. Highly unbecoming, I can assure you.

Why don’t people realise that hyping up every syllable we utter only serves to devalue the words themselves? What are we now supposed to say for those rare and beautiful moments in life that are incredibly, almost-to-the-point-of-beyond-words funny? All the usual terms have been used up and worn out on a bunch of stuff which at best was only mildly amusing.

So please, for my sake, let’s keep laughter special. We’re not a nation of laughing gas addicts so can we kindly stop communicating as though we are? Read more by Rosie.

Image: www.freeimages.co.uk