During the pandemic, the heroes of the hour in my London neighbourhood were, without doubt, the women staffing the Tesco tills, smiling behind masks, keeping distanced trolleys flowing, firmly rationing the eggs and loo rolls while being hugely generous with their chat, concern, humour and calm; a tonic in hard times. But once the masks were officially binned, and we moved back into “normal” times, the human drought began.
A small but growing squadron of temperamental, over-sensitive self-checkouts were installed, and they show little mercy. The result is a rising tide of frustration, impatience and solitary seething, as attempting to fill a shopping bag is torpedoed by an endless stream of commands, rejections and refusals, while there’s rarely anyone who lives and breathes to certify that you are old enough to buy booze and have a little joke that you can’t possibly be 21.
