Bob was my supermarket cashier last week. Now it cannot be easy being on the trolley front-line and normally cashiers have my sympathy. I smile at those who are addicted to meaningless chitchat. I sympathise as life grinds to a halt for missing bar codes. I discuss in rational tones the various reasons as to why a juice carton is dripping all over the place.
But Bob did not have my sympathy because he clearly believed himself to be the leader of the free world and not a supermarket cashier at all. The first thing he did was re-arrange my groceries.
Now there is a vague system to the way I load my trolley and this corresponds to how I want to pack them. Bob had other ideas. He held certain things back and brought others forward. Then he gathered all the drink together. What had seemed a reasonable number of bottles strewn out now looked embarrassingly in excess of government guidelines. I looked at Bob in horror. "I'm too young. I'll need a supervisor to put this lot through," he said. He must be lying: he looked 25 and was acting 65.
That was only the beginning. Bob didn't know any of the prices. More blinking lights called more staff who were then ordered to go forth and multiply. Bob didn't do double-bagging and the ice-cream went bare into the bag. Finally he called the supervisor again because he didn't like the look of my signature. I glared over my badly packed, leaking and clanking bags and pointed out that someone whose loyalty card entitled them to 11 vouchers was unlikely to be an impostor. "Just doing my job," he said smugly.
Now, sitting on the train with my cartoon couple, I was fantasising about secretly shopping Bob. On my mystery shopper card I would write: "This is the supermarket cashier from hell." I'm sure Bob wouldn't mind. He's obviously management material.Reuse content