Stones in my Passway

 I was supposed to go on a long country walk today but my friend cancelled, so I decided to go on a longish urban walk instead and, as it was a rare sunny day, my thoughts soon turned to refreshment. I walked to Dundonald, looped around by the Ice Rink and walked back through Tullycarnet, a place where every single shop except the petrol station is boarded up. Eventually I got back to my local Co Op. 

Now. 

I find the Co Op tricky since they refocused their customer preference. The Co Op still brands itself as less a shop than a community hub. We own the cooperative, remember. It's all about us. But that's not how it works any more. Now the shop is in the service of delivery drivers. It's a glorified warehouse, the staff solely employed to stuff Rustler burgers and Coors Light into plastic bags for the impatient Middle-Eastern gentlemen who leave their cars running outside. The boring, on-site customer is now an irritant. They installed two self-service tills to accommodate these late adapters, and then abandoned the manned tills forever. 

It's a smallish shop. Today upon entering it, two of the aisles were blocked by staff replenishing the shelves with their multi-shelved carts on castors. A third aisle was blocked by a tall, slim woman with her back to me, shuffling about and reading her phone. I looked for the things I wanted to buy and, when those things weren't there, regrouped, and bought other things that they did have in stock. I bought some wine and a pie if you must know. Breakfast of champions. 

I approached the till, and there was a woman behind it. Incredible. Firstly, the shop is usually only staffed by teenage boys, and secondly, they only appear behind the counter to hand plastic bags full of razors and Aunt Bessie's frozen Yorkshire puddings to the delivery guys. This was great news. But there was also a woman using the self-service till and she was in trouble. She'd scanned something three times by mistake. The woman behind the counter was attempting to correct this from her own scanner, also behind the counter. I queued, watching this, as I was buying alcohol, and would need the assistance of the woman behind the till anyway. So, I watched. It went on for some time: the server asking if the excess items had gone, and the woman at the self-service counter not knowing. A queue was now forming behind me, and at the head of the queue was the woman who stared at her phone and who was still staring at her phone. The extra items did finally seem to be deleted, but the server wasn't giving up on her charge now, and she continued to remote-view her transactions, while I continued to stand there. She was serving this woman at one point of removal. 

There was a tut behind me. The woman with the phone had realised the other self-service till was free, and pushed past me, angrily, to get to it. I was the problem. I was a stone in her passway. The first customer finally packed her bag and left, and the server beckoned me over. I don't know what it was, but she was distinctly frosty. Maybe my face had upset her, or perhaps my patient queuing had got all up in her grill. It could have been the long line of customers trailing behind me. I approached with my best smile, but I hadn't shaved, my hair was wild, and I'd been for a three mile hike on the first hot day of the year. I was wearing a tee-shirt that declared, "I would prefer not to", which people seem to find confusing and a concern. Any one of these might have been the tipping point, but she definitely tipped. Her expression could have cooled porridge. The contents of my basket: a bottle of wine and a pie didn't seem to impress her either. Bachelor chow, to be eaten alone, in my pants, watching Robot Wars. She had the measure of me. I didn't blame her. This is how I'm always treated by shop assistants, librarians, bar staff, senior consultants, junior consultants, Junior Giscombe. There's something about my face, it's peculiar geography, or perhaps my mangled, wobbly body, people take against. It can't be my personality. I leave it at home when I go shopping. 

She sullenly scanned my awful purchases. "You got a club card?" I didn't. She rolled her eyes. Of course, I didn't. A man like me. Imagine. The price came up on the card reader, and I tapped my card. It wasn't recognised and she perked right up. "You'll have to put your card in." I put my card in, suddenly aware she was willing me to fail. At this point, the woman in the queue behind me became bored of my transaction, and stepped up to the till and started unpacking her basket. I hadn't even paid yet. This time the card worked and I packed my bag, but she was already scanning the other woman's provisions. I quickly stuffed the pie 'n' wine combo into my tote de jour - Agatha Christie - and tried to leave, but the woman with the phone was standing in front of the exit, staring into her phone. I'd had enough. 

"Excuse me," I said, in a tight, high English whine. It sounded like trapped air escaping. 

She stepped to one side. I didn't bother to look at the expression on her face. I knew what it would be. 

"Man Goes To Shop Isn't Treated Like A Special Little Prince Shocker"

I know, I know. There's stuff going on in the world. Last night the President of the United Stated pretended to get shot so he could justify a ballroom. 

But you have no idea. It's something like this every single time I'm in there. Some of it maybe down to my social awkwardness, difficulty with the transactional process, and my hideous appearance. But at least some of it is the fucking shop. A shop with no one behind the till. A shop where the self-service tills regularly break down. A shop where you need to remember to bring a bag because, even though you can buy a bag from the self-service till, they're kept behind the unmanned counter, out of reach. A shop where I have on more than one occasion had to wander into the warehouse to try and get someone, anyone to sell me something. 

But the wine is two quid cheaper than in the Winemark. So here we are.