by Tazeen Ahmad
Nelly is on the tills with us and it’s soon time for her to go home. After a decade here, she’s spectacularly rude to the supervisors, the Cogs and often the customers too. She is so fearless she shuts her till down five minutes early without asking. I watch as she confidently tucks her chair in, doesn’t waste time saying goodbye to the rest of us and charges towards the till captains to return her key, unbothered by the fact that she is in fact clocking off a couple of minutes early. She’s my hero.
At the baskets today are a couple with significant marital issues.
‘That’s £19.67, please.’ I say.
The man in his fifties replies: ‘I wish it was.’
‘That’s a fallacy,’ says the wife.
‘Women knew their place then.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘That was the problem.’
‘Still is.’
People are tired and in a rush. One woman hands me her library card instead of her credit card. Someone else gives me her driving licence, and several times a day I’m given a Tesco club card instead of the Nectar one. But it is mostly quiet and Hayley and Clare struggle to keep us busy. They don’t take us off the tills but keep asking us to clean them. After the second bout with a spray and cloth, I can’t fake it again.
Back to the rest of the newsletter and Richard has dedicated a full page to drumming home the importance of customer service. He’s now trying the stick-and-carrot approach; threats about more observations and pats on the back for those who’ve been named by the mystery customer. OK so he’s not perfect—well, he is a manager.
A lot of the customers who come to the basket tills often have DVDs with them—and these are being bought in bulk today. ‘Why don’t you just rent a film rather than buy one?’
‘Because they are so cheap to buy these days, it almost costs the same. And I do like to watch my films several times.’
‘Oh really? How many times?’
‘Well I’ve watched Mamma Mia four times this month.’
A customer I serve with several DVDs in her basket tells me she has no recession worries on her mind. Her company are suppliers to Sainsbury’s, ‘so, for as long as you are in business, we are in business’. Not such positive talk from a woman still perspiring after a netball game. She tells me she is a personal trainer.
‘It’s gone very quiet. It’s common knowledge, people just don’t pay for personal trainers during recessions because it’s a luxury. But I can’t worry about it yet—I just have to keep going until it has all ground to a halt.’
Before I go home today I serve a beautician whose hours have been cut so she now works four days a week. ‘The annoying thing is that people are still getting themselves waxed, getting their nails done and the rest of it, but our boss is using the recession as an excuse to make some cuts. The hair salon section has had cutbacks because people are colouring their hair at home now.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen that—lots of people are buying home dye kits here,’ I tell her.
‘Well, that’s probably why lots of salons are closing down. And also my customers have been telling me that they’ve been made redundant and stuff, but the thing is, for women, getting themselves down to the beauty salon is not a luxury, it’s a necessity. Women need to look like women, no matter what the cost.’
‘Your boss is probably making cuts because he thinks it might get rockier further down the road. Maybe he’s planning for the long haul?’
‘That’s true, I suppose. But I’ve had enough now, so my boyfriend and I are heading off to Cyprus to try our luck there.’ She tells me that her boyfriend has found a job in a kids’ club at a big hotel and she will tout around for work in a spa hotel. She doesn’t seem concerned that she hasn’t tied a job down yet, but is keen to get away from here because the rent on her flat has gone up. ‘In Cyprus, the rent on the villa we’re hiring is about a quarter of what I’ve been paying here, but the salaries are more or less the same.’
A highly strung customer from my first few weeks interrupts my thoughts and throws down her shopping.
‘How are you today?’ I ask, knowing the answer full well.
‘Really annoyed—you never have any food.’
‘Oh, that’s surprising,’ I say, looking pointedly around the store that makes a fortune from selling the stuff.
‘Every time I come, the shelves are empty.’
‘What was missing?’
‘No organic eggs, no organic butter, no organic bread, no organic milk. And I really need my eggs.’
‘Did you ask anyone?’ I dare to enquire.
‘NO! I can’t be bothered.’
‘I’m sure if you did, they’d be able to find something for you.’
‘No need now. I’ve written a letter of complaint to your manager and asked him if I should take my custom elsewhere.’
Rebecca and I get the bus home together today.
‘I’m a real mug with customers. I let them put their shopping down even after they’ve put my till sign down,’ she tells me.
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because I don’t want an argument. They can be so nasty sometimes.’
‘You’re too nice, Rebecca. You should see what they’re like at my local supermarket, they couldn’t care less.’
‘I KNOW! Mine too. Do you think it’s just our store?’
‘What do you mean? The fact that we spend most of our energy seducing vile customers? Sadly, no. But we’re not bad at it, are we?’
‘Well, apart from all the rubbish that comes out of our mouths, I’d say we’re pretty damn good.’
And not for the first time since I’ve met her, we laugh like two old women.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Another historic day when interest rates fall by another half a point. They are now an astonishing 0.5 per cent. Does anyone need reminding that less than six months ago they were 5 per cent? The Bank of England has also started the process of printing money in an effort to kick-start the economy. But it’s another dark day as house prices continue to fall and car sales plunge.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
I’m at my local Sainsbury’s for what I intend to be a quick top-up, but somehow ends up taking two hours. I no longer retain the right to silently mock customers who tell me they’ve been in the store ‘for ever’. In my defence, it’s because everything has been moved again, so I hunt down my colleagues to help locate my favourite table biscuits. I soon discover that there is no fear of the mystery customer here. The first one shrugs his shoulders. The second barely smiles as she looks aimlessly for my biscuits and then gives up after a couple of minutes—without telling me. Third time lucky; he takes me to the item and politely asks if I need anything else before returning to his shelf-stacking. I’m then forced to stalk him for the next ten minutes, walking past again and again in an attempt to read his name badge. He deserves a shining star and I’ll be damned if he misses out on my watch. After passing him a fourth time and pretending not to stare in the direction of his left nipple, he gets suspicious so I move on.
Next on my list, sugar snap peas; there are none in the crates. I ask and the lethargic assistant says he’ll take a look inside. He spends fifteen minutes in the back while I loiter amongst the vegetables and he is as listless on his return as he was when he first went in. ‘Might be some here in forty-eight hours or so,’ he says. Customer service here is so bad I contemplate popping my uniform on and slipping into the back to check their MCM score.
Standing in the clothing aisle, I’m choosing a handbag for my mother when two shop-floor assistants start chatting in front of me. A third walks past and they try to get his attention. ‘I’m too busy, don’t disturb me, I’m off to serve the mystery customer,’ he jokes. The two remaining colleagues stand in silence for a few minutes rearranging scarves and then one of them says with more pride than is fitting, ‘I served the mystery customer once AND they mentioned my name.’
‘OH, REALLY?’ says the other, in awe. I
hang around the synthetic handbags for a few more minutes, but they say no more. I pick up my £15 bargain and head for the tills.
Doreen is there to greet me when I arrive and we start chatting. She tells me she started her shift at 11 a.m. and finishes at 7 p.m. and will get a thirty-minute lunch break. I ask if she enjoys the job and she shrugs her shoulders. Stupid question. Her manager interrupts and tries to usher her to the kiosk where they are short-staffed. He hangs around while she nervously puts my shopping through as quickly as possible. I wink at her as I leave and notice that she has sneaked me some extra school vouchers. I stop at customer service on my way out and do my usual roll call of shining stars, although, truth be told, these guys wouldn’t last five minutes in my store.
Friday, 13 March 2009
It’s a gorgeous sunny day and after a week off I have a little spring in my step. As I walk to the big glassy entrance, the amber Sainsbury’s sign seems more vibrant than normal. It actually sparkles against the blue of the sky, and the trolleys clank louder in the spring breeze. A manager and trolley minnow are standing close to the doors, listening intently to a customer complaining. I try to eavesdrop as I pass, but it’s too windy. In through the double doors and a shrunken out-of-shape Superman in a red shaggy wig is carrying a bucket with loose change. He looks deflated. I’m so distracted by him I walk straight into Richard. He gives me a big grin and an affectionate squeeze of the arm. ‘Let’s have a catch-up later,’ he says. Although he’s the boss, he has this disarming way of making you believe he’s your best friend.
At the back of the store I’m met with a pleasant smile from a colleague who works on the fruit-and-veg section. A few weeks ago she pointed me in the direction of the staff discounted vegetables after noting my basket of shop-floor groceries. ‘You don’t have to pay full price, darling, you just need to know where to look.’ Another Cog is pushing a trolley full of hangers and she shouts out to no one in particular: ‘I ate three burgers yesterday and feel sick today.’
I’m in good spirits, but my first few customers today talk on their mobile phones throughout the transaction, not responding to my bright Hellos. Some smile reservedly at all my attempts to engage them while others doggedly refuse to make eye contact. But there are managers hanging around nearby so I have no choice but to start babbling to myself. The first customer I talk to is trying to fit his weekly shopping into his lunch hour. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking—I need to book a morning or afternoon in for it. I’m getting quite fed-up with all the moving around of products here—I know they’re just doing it to get me to buy other stuff.’
‘Why don’t you just shop online?’ I ask.
‘I tell you, I’m this close to doing just that—and I’d bet I’d save a whole load too.’
Thirty minutes of unnerving staring pass and the bosses leave so we finally relax.
A bunch of apples are dropped on my till by a crabby customer. There is no sticker to identify them so I scrutinise them vacantly. I have about eleven varieties to choose from on the screen alone and apples are not really my thing. I sneak a look at the customer in the hope of a clue while I flick aimlessly through the selection on my screen; Bramley, Cox, Golden Delicious, Gala, Granny Smith, Pink Lady…The apples are reddish, so that eliminates the yellow and green ones. I did say apples were not my thing.
‘I’m really sorry, but I don’t suppose you know what kind of apples these are, do you?’
‘NO, why would I?’ she answers brashly. ‘And I’m astonished that you don’t! Surely you should know that kind of thing by now—sitting here scanning so many apples every day. I mean, how many different types of fruits are there in here? A hundred, two hundred tops…’ She’s still at it as I call for the supervisor, who takes one look and says, ‘Braeburn.’
Thick skin is a basic requirement in this business, and not just with apple-eaters. People who don’t speak English are often unintentionally (although sometimes intentionally) the rudest. They may not have mastered the language but they certainly rule Cog-dom. ‘BAG!’ ‘PACK!’ and ‘CHECK PRICE!’ is shouted at me countless times a day, deeming me as dense and as deaf as wood. I don’t need a translator of Polish/Turkish/Greek/ Russian to know that this is then followed by some debate about my various demerits right in front of me. I’m getting pretty good at selective hearing.
I am not so good at ignoring customers who stall at the end of the till dissecting their receipts before leaving with a sigh and a shake of the head at the size of the bill. Sometimes though, I have to admit that this is my own doing. On numerous occasions I’ve scanned a reduced item at its original higher price because a reduced sticker has not been placed over the original barcode by a shop-floor colleague too lazy, bored or badly trained to do the job properly. The Cog is the one who ends up paying the price. Here’s what usually happens: Cog scans barcode. Original price is charged. Customer suspects wrongdoing. Customer locates longed-for blunder on the receipt. Customer turns on Cog with toxic combination of triumph and hostility. Cog’s feeble opt-out is ‘Customer service will sort it out for you.’ Customer has tantrum before realising that there is nothing a Cog can do. Long live the customer service desk.
Trolley Boy struts past me a couple of times today. He’s wearing a yellow sun hat, matching glasses and a red nose. I will him to approach an unsuspecting customer. Instead he approaches a grumpy Cog one till down from me.
‘Do you know who won Greece’s first ever gold medal in judo in Athens?
‘Er, no?’
‘Ilias Iliadis.’
‘Right.’
‘Ahmed Al-Maktoum won the first gold medal for the Arab Emirates that year,’ he says, smiling enthusiastically.
‘Uh-huh,’ says Cog, looking around for a customer.
‘British women got a gold in the sailing then,’ he adds, trying to draw her in.
She starts looking at her nails.
‘You probably know about Denise Lewis in Sydney?’
‘Nope—I don’t, as it happens,’ says Cog, looking like she wants to strangle him.
‘She won gold in the heptathlon.’
‘I’m not interested. I don’t care about the Olympics.’
‘The Americans got thirty-six gold medals that year.’
‘Which part of “I’m not interested” don’t you get?’ says Cog, now dropping her polite act.
‘I loved Michael Phelps in 2004—eight medals in swimming.’ And just before Cog is about to erupt he picks up the baskets by her tills and casually strolls away.
A mum in a rush to do the school pick-up has nothing but cheap toys in her basket: rattles, teething toys and small teddies, all marked between 10 and 29p. ‘I take them to my daughter’s nursery and then they send them on to children in poor countries every Christmas. They’re cheap now so I thought I’d just buy them while I can.’
Despite the recession, we raise a fair bit for Red Nose Day. Most of the Cogs are wearing their own clothes and, out of their neon-orange fleeces and blue-pleated trousers, they are all really very attractive. The ladies’ man on BWS (beers, wines and spirits) passes by making borderline sexually inappropriate comments about how striking the till area looks today. Some are wearing such ridiculous fancy dress that I have a problem identifying who or what they are supposed to be. There is a jolly green giant—complete with green tights, pixie shoes and a little off-the-shoulder leafy number. He flounces around the supermarket oblivious to the bemused attention he is getting. There is a witch with long tangled grey hair and a hideous green mole hanging off her chin, flashing her nails. A supervisor walks from till to till telling us all to dress up tomorrow. I do my selective hearing thing again.
I get a recipe for Greek-Bulgarian meatballs handed down the generations from a customer who shares it on condition that I make it in the next few weeks and give her feedback. I agree.
Hang the yogurt in a muslin cloth overnight over a plate to catch the drips so all the excess water seeps through. Mix it up with cucumber, olive oil,
garlic, dill and chopped walnuts. Mix the minced beef with breadcrumbs, beaten egg, cumin, onion, black pepper and salt—make into balls and fry. Add tinned tomato sauce simmered with oregano and chopped onions. Eat.
Martina comes to my till with her shopping and while we chat I discover she has worked here for eleven years. I’ve been wondering for weeks why so many people stay in a job like this for quite so long and ask her this as directly as I dare.
‘Because I like it here! I like the money. I don’t get any trouble. I’ve got good friends, so why wouldn’t I stay here? Anyone who doesn’t like it here just doesn’t belong here.’
I get my pay-back in the form of two Chanel-bag toting ladies. Neither of them responds to any version of my charm offensive—they offer only two sets of superior smiles. I wonder what they would make of the woman in her forties who asks quietly if we have any vacancies for her seventeen-year-old son, who has been looking for work since before Christmas and has had zero luck. Student jobs are increasingly thin on the ground and there should be no shame in working here.
But it’s not the only kind of work that’s disappearing fast. A woman in her forties with shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair runs a boiler business with her husband.
‘We decided to turn it into a limited company because if you’d asked my husband before Christmas about the credit crunch he would have said, “What credit crunch?” But now it’s a different story…It’s definitely quieter than normal, although it does tend to be quiet during the spring-summer for us anyway. People used to pay their bills straight away and now they are taking much longer about it. Not because they’re trying to avoid paying but for genuine reasons—they just can’t afford it. That’s why we’ve become a limited company, so it can swallow up any problems for us.’ She owns two mortgage-free houses and earns an income on the rental from one.
