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Bag It Up
From BoF 1
It’s a question of etiquette: when the cashier at your
local supermarket poses the question ‘would you like a hand with your packing’
you’d be forgiven for assuming it’s an innocent enough question. Unfortunately,
bitter experience has taught us that it’s a question with no right answer…
The mere concept of grocery
shopping is enough to make the more sensitive of us assume the foetal position
and sob quietly. The whole experience is one of rage-inducing angst, akin to an
Indiana Jones expedition inside the Temple of Doom. Although the
number of snakes and poisoned arrows may be limited, supermarket shopping
presents its own types of trials and terrors.
Once one has negotiated the car
park – the design for which appears to have been based on a model of the lower
intestine only with more mini-roundabouts, you are presented with the first of
so many horrific choices: Where do you park?
A) Park close to the supermarket
in the more densely populated ‘fat lazy bastards’ area and risk getting your
cars doors whacked by the ignoramus next to you or totally parked in by the
chubber who has ‘just nipped to the cash machine, like’.
B) Park in sparsely populated
‘miles away’ zone where a view of the actual supermarket entrance is limited
solely by the natural curvature of the earth’s surface. Be wary: should this
option seem more pertinent, on conclusion of the shopping marathon you’ll be
forced to push your half tonne of shopping in a wonky trolley across several
miles of open car park whilst the local youth bombard you with insults in
between sessions of vandalism and drug-taking.
After stifling the rage brought
to the surface of your being when noting the number of greasy teenagers in
their modded up shit-mobiles parked in the ‘mother and child spaces’ you’re
ready to commence. Choose your trolley carefully, as it’s about to become your
best friend/nemesis for the duration of the frightening journey.
So, it’s time to commence
shopping. I do my regular weekly shop on a Tuesday at around 8:30pm in a futile
attempt to avoid the plague of pensioners that possess the supermarket on a
Saturday morning. My theory on this is that after a lifetime of being irritated
in supermarkets you get to the point of thinking ‘Right, I’m old. It’s time to
annoy everyone else by shopping on a Saturday even when I’ve had the rest of
the week to do it’. You’d think that shopping in the evening would minimise the
number of screaming brats; but you’d be surprised how many incompetent parents
assume that it’s an acceptable time of the evening for little Kyle and Konnar
to be running around demanding a bag of sugar-coated glycerine washed down with
an energy drink.
An old shopper - beware
I continue to fill my trolley
full of items whilst quelling the urge to lambaste strangers on their failings.
The people who insist on leaving their trolleys unattended at 90 degrees to the
aisle, therefore impeding other shoppers. The man who stares wistfully at the
preserves for minutes on end, blocking all other users from the lemon curd. For
Christ’s sake man, its just jam. It’s not a life changing decision.
Then there’s the abandoned
shopping. You know what I mean. You’ll be looking for the cream crackers when,
lurking amongst the savoury cheese accompaniments, there’ll be a tin of milkshake mix. And a light
bulb. And a packet of yeast. Now, I think to myself: what’s happened here? Did
the previous customer get overcome by the impending threat of Armageddon, abandoning the
shopping to pursue a last minute ambition or head for cover in the toilet
tissue aisle? Did the customer locate an item in the cracker section that left
the three other choices unnecessary? As I am unaware of the existence of either
a nuclear missile attack ‘false alarm’ or a cracker that emits 60 watts of
light whilst flavouring milk and rising bread, I fear that the answer is more
likely to be that the lazy sod just couldn’t be arsed to put the crap back that
they’d decided, for whatever reason, they no longer required.
At
some point during what has now become a crusade rather than a shopping
experience I will come across and usually steer my trolley through the ‘dropped
item’. Akin to a Yeti footprint, the dropped jar of pasta sauce offers proof
that the Neanderthal is alive and well and yet to grasp the ability to walk,
talk AND hold things. The fact that whoever created the tomato and pesto slick
across aisle 17 obviously concluded that pointing out their mistake to a member
of staff could bring them unwanted tabloid attention, therefore they’d just
leave it. Because someone else would sort it out, you know?
Further adventures include my
illogical hatred of the dented cans. Why can’t I just take the battered tins of
chopped tomatoes? Why do they make me feel so cheap and used? And there’ll be
that inevitable one item that I can’t find. After successfully tracking down
the pickled peanuts and frozen walrus meat I’ll find that there are no
potatoes. And something that I want will be offered on ‘buy one get one free’.
Of course, there’ll only be one left…
Stressed, but in one piece, I
reach the checkout. Now which checkout does one choose? Do not fall for the
obvious trap of picking the aisle with the shortest queue: base your choice on
the appearance of the cashier. If they look hopeless, they will be. What’s that
I hear you cry? Don’t judge a book by its cover? Well these are not books, they
are people. And they do not have covers, they have faces. Faces which reflect
their hopelessness and general ineptitude. Use that information.
As I unload the contents of my
trolley I await the inevitable. As a tin of pineapple chunks sits in my sweaty
palm, the words are spoken: “Would you like a hand with your packing?” It seems
straight forward enough. Do I want some help or not. Be honest. Just answer.
Don’t be so naïve. It’s not a straight forward question. And you can give no
right answer. What you can merely do is perform a damage limitation exercise.
Your choices are simple: at the crossroads you can go right or left. You can
choose yes, or you can choose no.
Yes
The word ‘Yes’, translates
roughly as follows in the ear of the cashier:
‘I am lazy. I can not be bothered
to put the huge mountain of crap into bags. You will do it for me. For you are
the bag monkey. Work monkey work. Bag that crap. Earn that minimum wage. I
laugh at you.’ The cashier puts into place the
three-point plan:
Point 1:
Tut loudly. Possibly groan. In extreme circumstances, mutter expletives.
Point 2:
Pack as slow as humanly possible, within the bounds of acceptable human
behaviour. When you can pack no slower, stop completely and ring the little bell
under your till.
Point 3:
Use as many carrier bags as possible. If in doubt, bag things separately. Think
not of the environment; think only of your pathetic wages and the idleness of
the customer.
No
The word ‘No’ translates roughly
as follows in the ear of the cashier:
‘Do not touch my shopping. You
are inept. You are unable to pack my shopping in a logical manner. Despite the
fact that I am yet to finish unpacking it, I would rather appear flustered and
disorganised than have you interfere with my shopping. I laugh at you and your
pathetic offer of help.’ The cashier
then puts into place the alternative three-point plan:
Point 1:
Scan that shopping, and do it faster than thought humanly possible. Attempt a
Guinness book of records entry.
Point 2:
Crush that shopping together in the insanely small bagging area. Use the
conveyer belt to add to the squash factor. Think not of the customers eggs and
meringue nests; think only of the customer’s distain for your offer of help.
Point 3:
Demand payment as the customer fumbles with shopping. Demand payment by simply
stating the amount. Does not use please and thank you. They didn’t want you
interfering. They must be in a rush. There is no time to be wasted with
pleasantries.
In truth I’m more of a ‘No’ man
as the opportunities for revenge reveal themselves more openly. As the cashier
sits, palm aloft, waiting for payment I choose to plough on with the packing.
When I do get round to handing over something, ensure it’s the wrong card (when
this happens accidentally its embarrassing, when done purposefully, it’s both
rewarding and enlightening)
I feel it’s necessary at this
point to mention that I have experience on the other side of the conveyor. For
5 hellish weeks I scanned and bagged. In truth it’s all a bit of a blur, yet
the memory of one encounter remains fresh. At a particularly weak moment, a
strange, funny coloured fruit/vegetable came rumbling along my conveyor. Not
knowing what it was (and not caring) I had the brass balls to ask the customer.
Cue total disbelief on the face of the organic-buying patron. ‘Well…it’s a pink
grapefruit, obviously! Don’t they teach you these things’ Whilst looking for
the button that represents ‘pink fruits’ on the till, I could not help but
respond: ‘Well, unfortunately I missed the last intensive 4 day citrus fruit
session. Hopefully, before my seasonal contract ends I’ll put my name down for
the next one so as to ensure I don’t offend like minded tropical fruit lovers
by inconveniencing them as to asking what CRAP THEY’RE BUYING??’ Well, at least that’s what I
should have said. Instead of just ‘um… sorry’. Ah, the all conquering power of
retrospect.
After that brief aside, my
shopping is bagged and paid for and I’m on the final stretch. It’s just a 700
yards World’s Strongest Man style push to the car avoiding the aforementioned
delinquents and those trolleys that have mysteriously managed to evade that
designated trolley area. Shopping packed, trolley dumped: you’d be forgiven for
thinking I was home free. But no, it’s time for the annex of angst. That little
extra stress to round of the experience: the supermarket petrol station.
I have been driving for many
years and have had the same car for quite a few. Hence I’ve used a petrol
station on many, many occasions.
However, that doesn’t stop me from forgetting every single damn time to
open the petrol cap with the little leaver next to the driver’s seat BEFORE
getting out of the car and walking around to the nozzle.
After I’ve checked about 8 times
that I have the unleaded pump its time for the inevitable and embarrassing
delay as I try to pump nothingness into my car. When the petrol does start to
flow it will click off every 3 seconds for my convenience. In order to combat
this design flaw I am forced to assume a posture that, from a distance, makes
me appear to be auditioning for a role in ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’. After
what seems like an ice age it becomes apparent that the 52nd time
the pump clicked off was the time I should have believed it. Fear not however,
the garage kindly provide an oversized toilet role with which to clean the fuel
from one’s trousers. A quick glance at the price I’m due to pay lowers my life
expectancy by a few minutes and then I’m off into the shop.
I decide against re-mortgaging my
house to afford a can of de-icer and head straight for the cashier. Oddly, the
Standard English greeting of ‘hello’ appears to have been replaced by ‘Numba
free? - £42 parnds’. God forbid you don’t remember your pump number or, even
worse, you’re not buying fuel. The affects are catastrophic. After the mood of
the cashier has rubbed off on me and left us both suicidal, its time for a
sprint back to the car and to get out of there as soon as possible.
This concludes the torture. It’s
time to go home for a good rant about the shortcomings of others and the state
of society today whilst putting the shopping away. Or a quiet weep in the
corner of a darkened room. Whoever invented the phrase ‘whatever doesn’t kill
us makes us stronger’ had clearly never been shopping.
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