me on these expeditions, to obviate this very problem.
‘It’s been a relief,’ I tell Hol. ‘So Guy says, although I thought it was quite nice having so many people to the house, and driving him to the hospitals and the units when there was no ambulance available. Doctor Chakrabarti comes out to see Guy once a week. A Tuesday or a Wednesday, usually.’
‘Hey, Kitface,’ one of the shelf-fillers says to me, pushing through the queue one trolley behind us with a shrink-wrapped pallet. ‘You all right?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say. ‘You?’
‘Cool, yeah,’ he nods.
I nod at the queue. ‘This a new queuing system or something?’
He rolls his eyes, then shakes his head. ‘Yeah.’ He pushes the pallet on through.
‘Say hi to—’ I begin, but Clodge – his real name is Colin – is already out of earshot. He is taller but much thinner than me, with ginger hair and poor skin.
‘Friend?’ Hol asks.
‘I suppose. Ex-colleague.’
‘You worked here?’
‘On a placement. Sort of work experience.’
‘That where you work for nothing and get your dole docked if you don’t? And this place gets a free worker?’
‘I was told it would be valuable experience.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘It taught me not to suggest and then unilaterally enact too many innovations within the retail environment, as this would inevitably impact adversely on my employment prospects.’
‘You got sacked?’
‘Yes. I had my Unemployment Benefit stopped for six weeks, too.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Did you know supermarkets deliberately change their layouts so people who’ve become familiar with the previous layout will subsequently be forced to wander around more, looking for the things they want, and so seeing and potentially purchasing products they stumble upon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s so inefficient!’
‘No, it’s very efficient at increasing profits. You’re just looking at it wrong.’
‘I sort of know that, but I still find it offensive.’
‘We’ll make a socialist of you yet.’
‘I doubt it; I’m not sure that’s that efficient either.’
The queue processes forward again. We’re almost at the split point where an elderly employee I don’t recognise is directing those queuing to the first available aisle or the self-checkout area.
We are close enough to the latter to hear the soft chorus of phrases, delivered by a female voice stored on a chip: ‘Next item, please’, ‘Unidentified item in bagging area’, ‘Please insert card or cash now’, ‘Please wait for help, an attendant is on the way’, ‘Would you like cashback?’, ‘Please enter your PIN number’ (though of course that one really ought to be, ‘Please enter your PI Number’ – not that anyone takes any notice when you point this out – not even management), ‘Please enter your voucher number’, ‘Please take your change’, ‘Notes are dispensed from beneath the scanner’, ‘Have a nice day’.
As well as this subtle, lilting choir, there are many mellifluous little chiming noises issuing from the till units, pinging out over the controlled chaos of the queues with each programmed action.
It is, I contend, music, and beautiful. I used to like hanging around here during busy periods just to listen to it. I think that might have impacted adversely on my employment prospects too.
‘Do you know what you’re going to do, once Guy’s gone?’ Hol asks. I think she’s keeping her voice low. ‘And once you have to leave the house?’
‘I think it depends on too many things for me to be sure,’ I tell her. ‘Guy might stage a recovery if the cancer goes into remission again. And there’s a final appeal by a local action group against the quarry extension with the result still pending, so that might not happen either. Even if both do happen, I don’t know how much I stand to inherit. Guy won’t say. He says it’s complicated, and there are debts to be settled first. Plus there’s the whole Power of
‘It’s been a relief,’ I tell Hol. ‘So Guy says, although I thought it was quite nice having so many people to the house, and driving him to the hospitals and the units when there was no ambulance available. Doctor Chakrabarti comes out to see Guy once a week. A Tuesday or a Wednesday, usually.’
‘Hey, Kitface,’ one of the shelf-fillers says to me, pushing through the queue one trolley behind us with a shrink-wrapped pallet. ‘You all right?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say. ‘You?’
‘Cool, yeah,’ he nods.
I nod at the queue. ‘This a new queuing system or something?’
He rolls his eyes, then shakes his head. ‘Yeah.’ He pushes the pallet on through.
‘Say hi to—’ I begin, but Clodge – his real name is Colin – is already out of earshot. He is taller but much thinner than me, with ginger hair and poor skin.
‘Friend?’ Hol asks.
‘I suppose. Ex-colleague.’
‘You worked here?’
‘On a placement. Sort of work experience.’
‘That where you work for nothing and get your dole docked if you don’t? And this place gets a free worker?’
‘I was told it would be valuable experience.’
‘Uh-huh?’
‘It taught me not to suggest and then unilaterally enact too many innovations within the retail environment, as this would inevitably impact adversely on my employment prospects.’
‘You got sacked?’
‘Yes. I had my Unemployment Benefit stopped for six weeks, too.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Did you know supermarkets deliberately change their layouts so people who’ve become familiar with the previous layout will subsequently be forced to wander around more, looking for the things they want, and so seeing and potentially purchasing products they stumble upon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s so inefficient!’
‘No, it’s very efficient at increasing profits. You’re just looking at it wrong.’
‘I sort of know that, but I still find it offensive.’
‘We’ll make a socialist of you yet.’
‘I doubt it; I’m not sure that’s that efficient either.’
The queue processes forward again. We’re almost at the split point where an elderly employee I don’t recognise is directing those queuing to the first available aisle or the self-checkout area.
We are close enough to the latter to hear the soft chorus of phrases, delivered by a female voice stored on a chip: ‘Next item, please’, ‘Unidentified item in bagging area’, ‘Please insert card or cash now’, ‘Please wait for help, an attendant is on the way’, ‘Would you like cashback?’, ‘Please enter your PIN number’ (though of course that one really ought to be, ‘Please enter your PI Number’ – not that anyone takes any notice when you point this out – not even management), ‘Please enter your voucher number’, ‘Please take your change’, ‘Notes are dispensed from beneath the scanner’, ‘Have a nice day’.
As well as this subtle, lilting choir, there are many mellifluous little chiming noises issuing from the till units, pinging out over the controlled chaos of the queues with each programmed action.
It is, I contend, music, and beautiful. I used to like hanging around here during busy periods just to listen to it. I think that might have impacted adversely on my employment prospects too.
‘Do you know what you’re going to do, once Guy’s gone?’ Hol asks. I think she’s keeping her voice low. ‘And once you have to leave the house?’
‘I think it depends on too many things for me to be sure,’ I tell her. ‘Guy might stage a recovery if the cancer goes into remission again. And there’s a final appeal by a local action group against the quarry extension with the result still pending, so that might not happen either. Even if both do happen, I don’t know how much I stand to inherit. Guy won’t say. He says it’s complicated, and there are debts to be settled first. Plus there’s the whole Power of
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