Sometimes I need a checkout. I can’t be bothered to use the self-serve because I know I’ll have picked up the only loaf with a malfunctioning barcode or the deduction on the nearly-out-of-date Greek yoghurt will fail to deduct, or I’ll have to wait until the next Ice Age to get my £1.20 parking back.
There are few tills open at my local supermarket but there is always someone in one of those microphone headsets fitness instructors favour, and occasionally a giant foam pointy hand as popularised by Kenny Everett at the Tory Party conference.
I’d rather they served me but they clearly have cones to set out and health and safety warnings for spilt milk to add to aisle 3. Sorry, for the grumpiness. I don’t let it show. I fume in a quiet English way. Anyway, enough context.