The Checkout Girl

by Tazeen Ahmad

  Sainsbury’s is trying to up its green credentials. At the moment they play good guy to M&S’s bad guy on the plastic bag front. People are furious about having to pay for plastic bags there. Sainsbury’s keeps bags behind the tills until someone asks, but sometime next year bags will be gone from behind the tills, then they will have to be paid for, and eventually they will disappear altogether.

  Thursday, 20 November 2008

  Two weeks after I started, I am finally on checkouts. At first I just shadow and then I’m thrown in the deep end. I am slow and make mistakes, and most of time I’m too intimidated to apply Think 21. But as with my first attempt at parasailing, after the horror of being flung several hundred feet into the sky subsides, the adrenaline kicks in—and I’m high as a kite. I chat to strangers with the confidence of a teen drunk. My small talk is gauche and unrefined but it hits the mark for the few minutes every man, woman and child spends at my till. Through my checkout comes a recent widower who is struggling to shop alone, a young mum, her terrible toddler and a lot of impulse buys, an older mum accompanied by tetchy teenagers with many 3-for-2 offers, and a couple of middle-aged men with an extraordinary amount of chocolate.

  At 3.30 p.m. there’s a brief hiatus around the school-run time. Some of the till captains don’t like staff sitting around doing nothing, even for a moment—Samantha is ready to take me off and send me on a reverse shopping trip when it gets busy again. During the afternoon I’m handed yet more mystery customer paperwork to read. It reiterates that we have to be nice, polite and chatty.

  The first offer of overtime comes my way today and I turn it down. Overall it’s quieter than I expect. ‘Around the corner, a new Asda has opened up,’ a customer tells me. Another checkout girl tells me it’s quieter this year than last.

  That evening I watch a documentary on BBC2 about the beneficiaries of the credit crunch—the discount supermarkets. Lidl and Aldi claim customers can do their weekly grocery shopping with them for half the price it would cost them elsewhere. The secret of their success is no frills, stocking their own brands, making the packaging similar to well-known brands and selling non-food items. The king of Aldi says he keeps prices low by only stocking one type of cornflakes: he thinks customers in other supermarkets are simply paying for the privilege of looking at six varieties.

  Giants in the supermarket world must be anxious about the fact that 55 per cent of us now visit discount supermarkets. We’ve known for a while that Tesco is trying to fight back; Sainsbury’s is keeping itself in the running by price-matching them. Fortunately for the higher-end supermarkets, customers do still like premium brands. However, after watching the programme I’m convinced that if people do start cutting back, Sainsbury’s are really going to lose out. Their focus on quality and customer service rather than lower prices seems counterintuitive as the recession grips.

  Thursday, 27 November 2008

  After my first few days on checkouts, the patience of the till captains has run dry. One of them, Barbara, barely makes any eye contact and rarely answers my questions. I’ve learnt that her steely exterior and no-nonsense attitude coats a tough-love approach—she wants newbies to learn by being thrown in the deep end. I’ve watched her charge around the store like she owns the place and, as she’s been here for aeons, she probably does.

  Susie’s friendliness is skin-deep—she’s tired of my inane questions. To start with she would smile kindly even when I asked for the third time how to do a split payment. She’s always polite and has a gentle, amiable manner which makes her popular with the Cogs. Recently though her grin has started to look strained when I beckon her over. I’ve come to dread having to call for any of the supervisors.

  On the up-side, the aisles are filled with the sound of neighbourly love. An elderly lady is shopping for an infirm neighbour, a young woman has left work early to shop for her dad laid up with flu, one man is helping his blind brother shop.

  Today news breaks about the collapse of Woolworth’s and I eavesdrop on a couple telling another customer how devastated they are by the news.

  ‘It’s a part of our culture and landscape. I grew up with the shop and so did my kids.’

  ‘Yes, but do you know what the worst part is? Supermarkets will now be able to charge whatever they want.’

  One person with no concern for price hikes is a well-maintained woman in her forties. Her two shopping trolleys carry what she tells me is her fortnightly shop. It takes forty-five minutes to put it through and costs just under £600. When I give her the grand total she doesn’t flinch and hands over her credit card with a voucher for 75p off her fabric conditioner. I ask if she has a big family but she says there are only four of them. Other colleagues around me are staring at her food going along the conveyor with wide-eyed awe. Standing right behind her, and in my line of sight, is a colleague with arched eyebrows mouthing incredulous expletives.

  Friday, 28 November 2008

  I’m on a basket checkout today and mince pies, Christmas decorations, gifts for loved ones are all starting to pass across my till now. There’s not so much time for chat—due to the huffing and puffing of impatient customers congregating in the queue here because they want to get out as quickly as possible. I know they don’t want to make small talk, but there is a supervisor hanging around nearby and I wonder if she is assessing me. And so I talk.

  As during my previous shifts, I find myself chatting to customers about the price of things and affordability. At least a couple of times a shift, this line of chat is followed by hushed, embarrassed queries about vacancies at the store. Today a woman in her fifties asks straight after telling me how expensive she is starting to find grocery shopping. An hour or two later, another shopper about to start training as a police officer asks me about Christmas vacancies. I’m convinced that £6.30 an hour won’t go very far for the likes of them, but I’ve got to be wrong.

  Despite the number of people complaining about the price of things, almost eight out of ten customers, with a big basket or trolley full of shopping, tell me they had just popped in for one thing. One guy tells me he’s a sucker for the subliminal marketing and product placement. Almost every customer comes to my till laden with reduced bakery items, cut-price clothes and cheap booze. And then gasps at the total.

  One customer tells me today that the Morrisons in town is heaving because of the discounted whisky. ‘It’s much cheaper than yours—and it was much busier in there.’ He’s got a point. For a store that claims not to be bitten by the credit crunch, it doesn’t feel all that busy. There are definitely busy times, but usually there tend to be no more than three to four customers waiting on basket tills and one or two on the trolley tills. And when it’s quiet, it can be very quiet.

  There is a fundamental difference between the customers coming to basket tills compared to the trolley ones. Baskets seem to attract men in the 30-50 age group who offer grunts rather than actual words in reply to my (usually futile) attempts to chat. They only ever purchase a couple of items, one of which is, invariably, Lynx deodorant.

  Truth be known, I’m scared witless of this type of customer and usually give up at the first hurdle. But today, when a grumpy thirty-something comes my way, I decide I won’t let him go without a fight. He cracks and before I know it he’s telling me that he has no plans for the weekends in the lead-up to Christmas, otherwise he won’t be able to afford festivities this year. Somehow, though, he’s convinced it’s going to be his cheapest Christmas yet. ‘There are going to be price-cuts galore over the next few weeks. PC World, Curry’s, M&S, John Lewis—they’re all either in trouble or having big sales early, so as far as I’m concerned it’s a win-win situation.’

  Although he turns out to be very pleasant, if I am too slow for the blokes in this age group they bellow like animals preparing for battle. When I need help from a till captain, one charmer shouts from the back of the queue, ‘I only got in this queue because I thought it’d be quicker.’ This is met with a rumble of approval from the othe
r men waiting in line. One man throws his basket down and storms off.

  And then a young Asian guy wearing a shirt that is so tight the button sitting at mid-chest level looks like it may pop and fly straight into my eye puts two bottles of Bacardi down on my till. I look at him, take a deep breath and ask for some ID.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

  ‘I’m sorry, you look so young.’

  ‘I don’t carry ID,’ he says, turning himself away from me defensively and rolling his eyes.

  ‘OK, let me just get a supervisor.’

  There are loud groans from the queue. The man behind him barks: ‘Just serve him—he looks over twenty-one.’

  Two women join in the blood sport taking shape before them. ‘I’d sell it to him, he looks much older than twenty-one.’

  Bolstered by the support of fellow customers, he turns himself back to me and snaps, ‘What’s the matter with you? I’m old enough.’ His frown is now menacing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper pathetically. ‘Take it as a compliment.’

  ‘Look,’ he says, pulling up his shirt. ‘I’ve got tattoos.’

  I stare at his chest and a large, dark blue scythe stares back at me. And still there is no till captain.

  ‘Just sell it to him.’

  ‘Job’s worth.’

  ‘I got two kids. I’m married. I got me own business.’

  I repeatedly push the supervisor button and get up on my feet to see if I can get ANYONE’s attention.

  Eventually the supervisor arrives.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  He then turns to the customer and in an act of bloke-to-bloke camaraderie says, ‘It’s all right, I’m from around here.’ They both laugh and the supervisor leaves.

  As for the now riled-up customer, it’s far from over. After paying, I notice he hasn’t packed his bottles. I ask if he wants a bag.

  ‘What do you think?’ he growls sarcastically. ‘It won’t be a very good idea for me to go back into work with those, would it?’ He aims this not at me but his supportive audience behind.

  I bite my lip until I can almost taste blood. I try to explain the scale of the consequences for me but no one is listening.

  The only thing that stops the shift from being a total disaster is meeting the trolley boy with an awesome ability to recall any random fact. When I say any—I mean ANY.

  Saturday, 29 November 2008

  My till-side view of every customer’s shopping is a privileged intrusion and lends itself to the worst kind of cod psychology. Take the single woman in her thirties buying the one carrot, a single onion, minced beef, a giant bar of Dairy Milk and a glossy magazine. I can already see her night in with dinner-for-one followed by chocolate and HELLO! for dessert. The man with the heavy bags under his eyes quietly purchasing breast pads, sanitary towels and painkillers for the new mum at home is totally knackered. The lonely middle-aged man with a penchant for red wine, who gets through a bottle a night (I know this because he’s back every couple of days for more). The pensioner with the sweet tooth, too proud to ask for help with packing her shopping, who will struggle to unpack when she gets home. By the time they get through my till, these shoppers have unintentionally shared some of the most personal moments of their life with me. In many ways I know them better than they know themselves. Sometimes it’s fitting to talk, other times I can tell this is their five minutes of peace. Either way, watching their shopping come through my till is invasive enough.

  Despite the numerous reports on ready meals and the health implications, I’m still alarmed at the number of people who rely on this as their main meal for the evening. Indian meals are the most popular. I want to blurt out my recipe for a curry that’s quick, easy to make, delicious and nutritious. If it weren’t for the risk of getting sacked, I’d be distributing it surreptitiously to every customer on laminated cards.

  Today my till is empty for a few moments, and I watch a man in his fifties approach a checkout adjacent to mine that is still serving someone with a huge amount of shopping. I indicate that I am free—and he shakes his head. ‘I’m all right here, love.’

  He has to wait a full five minutes before he gets served and I soon know why. The Cog at the next till is his favourite checkout girl. He can’t wait to talk to her and is positively bouncing on his heels by the time she picks up the belt divider and scans his first item.

  He may be too distracted by her blonde hair, big smile and undivided attention to worry about money matters, but others are not so easily fooled. They see the cost of their weekly shop pop up on the little screen right in their eye-line and it’s no exaggeration to say that they are but two shopping extravaganzas short of a cardiac arrest. Three customers coming through my till in just the one hour stop dead in their tracks when I announce their bills of £104, £85 and £60.

  ‘In the past my weekly shop would cost £100, now it’s much closer to £140. And that doesn’t include my daily trips to Tesco, where I’ll easily spend an average of £10-15,’ says one, sighing as she searches for her credit card.

  Another gasps, ‘Oh my goodness, I only came in for some potatoes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop there?’ Aside from Sainsbury’s marketing working its magic on her, I’d really like to know what possessed her.

  ‘Well, If you’ve got to have it, you’ve got to have it,’ comes the reply.

  The words of one of the other newbies ring loud in my ears. ‘Recession or no recession, people do have to eat.’

  My personal distraction today is a problem with childcare. I need to ask for a change in shift pattern. I have my four-week assessment next week and I’m keen to see if Sainsbury’s is likely to accommodate my circumstances and if it really is the family-friendly employer it claims to be. My boss has thus far been nothing but charming, courteous and accommodating. The other checkout girls are devoted to him, so let’s see how he handles my request. It’s a make-or-break situation for me, so fingers crossed.

  Spending the entire day at the till watching food, clothes and other goods go through is a bit like watching one long Sainsbury’s advert. I’ve started greedily making mental lists of all the things I MUST get before I go home. So today at the end of my shift I find myself shopping AGAIN. It’s the fourth time I’m doing it. I bump into another checkout girl, Michelle, doing exactly the same.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she says. ‘It’s the end of our shift and we’re both still here and SHOPPING.’

  ‘I’m doing it after every shift! I don’t get it.’

  ‘Me too, and how easy is it to spend the money we’ve just earned in just one shop.’

  As I make my way to the checkouts, an annoyingly sprightly twenty-year-old, Louisa, who started around the same time as me, is bragging about her first shining star. Bill, the checkout boy next to her, tells her he gets one on every shift.

  As I walk away from the brag-fest, I wonder why I haven’t got one yet. I’m doing OK, aren’t I? Should I up my game?

  I go home with an aching upper body. I’m developing checkout arms. All the sliding, scanning and passing is giving me bulging biceps. Madonna, eat your heart out.

  Thursday, 4 December 2008

  People shout at me today. Actual shouting. One customer yelled at me within ten minutes of my sitting down at the till. Congregating are the usual grim-faced male clientele. They are angry and are sketching out evil plans while they wait. With this much tension in the air I struggle with split payments, mobile top-ups, vouchers and discount cards. It’s been five days since my last shift, and I can’t remember a thing.

  Then my pin pad starts playing up so I can only take signed receipts. I take a couple and today’s till captain, Clare, tells me it’s OK to continue. I’ve learnt quickly that anything goes on Clare’s shift. I’ve never seen her rush for anything and she has just the one facial expression—a permanent just-awoken-from-deep-sleepy-slumber look. I like her laid-back approach, but I’m sure she’s often giving me the wrong instruction.

/>   When my till crashes, it starts looking as though Sainsbury’s is going to be brought to its knees by my incompetence. I raise my head above the till to see if I can get the attention of a supervisor and there is no one in sight. Meanwhile there is unrest amongst the growing mob before me.

  It makes perfect sense, of course: place the inexperienced, unconfident, rabbit-stuck-in-headlights Cog on the most complex and pressurised tills at the other end of the store and watch her die a slow and painful death. Well, if nothing else it’s good entertainment. I punch and thump my till aimlessly, offering drivelling apologies. And yet no one, least of all me, is going anywhere. Eventually I muster the courage to tell the growing queue that it will take a few minutes to sort the problem out and they should go to another till.

  Everyone grumbles loudly and starts to move away. But one man seems to be turning into the Incredible Hulk. Steam emerges slowly from both nostrils and ears, and I’m quite sure he is turning green. Within moments he explodes and bellows: ‘FOR GOD’S SAKE—JUST SORT IT OUT. CALL THIS CUSTOMER SERVICE? WHY CAN’T YOU LOT JUST DO YOUR JOBS? YOU GET PAID ENOUGH, DON’T YOU?’ Everyone in the store has stopped in their tracks and I see a long line of checkout girls stretching their necks above their screens to get a better view.

  I blush, stammer and punch my till for want of something…anything…to do. This is pure unadulterated humiliation and to survive it I force myself into an out-of-body experience. As I listen to the man rant, I watch from above and see the dud till with no supervisor bell attached and my panic-stricken arm pitifully waving in the air attempting to attract the non-existent attention of the non-existent till captains. I’ve been thrown to the wolves and they are making packet mince of me.