I always feel such a grave responsibility at the supermarket check out. I feel it is my solemn duty to be fully paid-up and effectively gone from the end of the conveyor before the next customer is ready to be checked out.Don’t ask me why this is. I never mind if the person in front of me dallies, messes up on their packing or even doesn’t start to contemplate paying the check out person until their goods are practically out in the back of their car.
Whatever the guy in front does, I’m pretty cool with. But, when it’s my turn, I might as well be going on stage at the bloody London Palladium – the pressure comes on.
I’m pretty good at it too. Usually , everything is packed neatly in the trolley before I have to enter my PIN.
Then I can wheel away with a warm sense of accomplishment. But sometimes it just doesn’t work out.
On those black days, you will witness me wheeling away from the back of the checkout, bags everywhere, receipts trailing like renegade toilet paper, trying to get to a neutral place where I can organise myself in peace.
But, I will console myself, the person behind me did not have to wait on my account. This consolation remains unabated even if the person behind is a ninety year old barn owl of a lass who hasn’t even managed to heave her Steradent multi-pack up onto the conveyor yet.
One interesting side effect of this unnecessary (and frankly a bit scary) super-market compulsive disorder is this; I will rarely go to a vacant checkout with my trolley.
If there are two checkouts to choose from, and one is completely free, and the other has an auld wan unloading her gear, I will happily fall in behind that auld wan and wait.
I know how mad this sounds – I feel feckin’ dodgy just typing it out.
But the simple fact of the matter is, if I go to the vacant checkout, then the checkout guy/gal will have practically all of my stuff rung through before I even get it unloaded.
And then, when I’m desperately trying to catch up on the mountain of packing on the far side, there is no doubt that an emotionally damaged soccer mom will arrive at the checkout behind me and she will glare at me all the time that I’m fecking around with my veggies.
And, as you’ll probably have gathered by now, I hate that.
