Читать книгу The Checkout Girl - Tazeen Ahmad - Страница 19

I read today that Tesco’s shoppers are dropping it for Morrisons and Asda. Tesco is still doing OK, but the question being asked now is—is the store losing momentum?

After the week I’ve had, I’ve lost all momentum. But I brave it and am, thankfully, rewarded with a trolley till. My first customer is an enormous woman with five obese kids and all she buys are five jumbo packets of crisps—that’s about a hundred packets of crisps in total. She yells at her kids and they yell at her. It’s a joy to behold.

In fairness, a simple shopping trip reduces the best of families to a dysfunctional version of their normal selves. I’m no longer embarrassed by the number of arguments I’ve witnessed between two unsuspecting adults unaware of the entertainment they’ve provided for the bored checkout girl before them. And the rows are always over small and ultimately insignificant things: plans for the evening, the choice of dinner for the night, Sunday lunch with the family, the cost of the shop they’ve just completed, the things they forgot to buy. I read a study that found that couples who shop together for more than seventy minutes will almost always start to row. Seventy-one-plus minutes in a supermarket and they’re ready to sign the divorce papers. And when my customers are not squabbling they’re just being odd. Some of them plan where they place their groceries on the conveyor belt with military precision, with the intention of ensuring it will be convenient to unpack when they get home. One man today asks me to wait while he spends ten minutes carefully unloading his shop on to the belt. He groups all like items together. As I ring through the items I can see the layout of his kitchen. First the larder with pasta, tinned tuna, baked beans, biscuits and pickles, then the fridge with cheeses, milk, meat and prepared salad. Next, the kitchen cupboard holding the bleach, washing-up liquid, scouring pads, washing powder, fabric conditioner and kitchen towels. It’s weirdly inspiring.

I spend much of my shift looking out for Richard, but, as expected, I don’t see him. After clocking off I hunt him down. He’s in the canteen with the usual posse of pit bulls and I ask for a private word. He takes me to a quiet office and we have a quick chat about my progress so far. Richard is one of a rare breed these days; a touchy-feely manager. I know my request for changing my shift is pushing the limits of new Cog protocol, but I have no option. I explain my childcare problem and he reminds me I had accepted the hours offered, but then promises to look into it. Finally he says:

‘We will support you anyway we can—put it in writing, suggest your alternatives, be as accommodating as possible, and Personnel and I will look at it and see what we can do.’ His response is heartening; he tells me not to worry and that we will sort something out. He is head and shoulders above all the managers I have had over the years. And I’ll bet my last bit of spare change that he’s the reason so many checkout girls have stuck it out here for so long. He’s considerate, courteous and proof that you don’t have to be bad to be good.

I go to Rebecca’s till for a quick chat before I leave for the day. The customer Rebecca is serving wants to do a split payment and Rebecca asks me how. Before I can help, the customer jumps in; she’s a former Tesco employee. She tells us she was there four years ago, earning £7.50 an hour at the age of sixteen. Rebecca is outraged and asks, not for the first time, ‘What am I doing here?’

Before I leave for the day I see a notice in the staff toilet called ‘Talkback’. It reads: ‘There is a popular misconception that Tesco pay more than we do. It’s not true. We also pay for fifteen-minute tea breaks, Tesco don’t.’