You probably know Angela. She inhabits one of the I-speak-your-groceries self checkouts at my local supermarket. The one second from the left. I strongly suspect she’s a relative of the I-speak-your-weight machine that used to clutter up the entrance of the nearby pharmacy. You may think she’s just a recording, but I’m not so sure.
Angela – not Angie, and certainly not Ange - racks up the cost of your purchases and takes your money. She has a glass screen for reading barcodes and a platform for weighing your fruit and veg. She’s also equipped with various slots and other apertures for ingesting your cash and credit cards, and for giving change - when she feels like it. I wouldn’t call her difficult – let’s just say that she knows her own mind. I’ve heard her described as both capricious and inflexible, but I’d never dare say so in her hearing.
When Angela first joined the supermarket, I found her quite engaging. But the novelty gradually wore off, and we don’t see so much of each other now. I prefer to deal with someone who wears clothes and smiles occasionally. Besides, Angela and her colleagues only like to handle small quantities – 15 items or less, according to the sign, so my weekly stock-up is usually too much for her to manage.
This morning, I’ve arrived at the checkout area to find myself behind an unusually long line of shoppers, carts laden with unimaginable amounts of canned food, bottled water and toilet paper. I think of mediaeval warfare, and wonder if they’re taking prophylactic measures against an expected siege. While I’m engrossed in this reverie, the queue seems to have stalled. After ten minutes or so a uniformed assistant strolls up and surveys the assembly. Perhaps she’s a trainee traffic police person: by means of hand signals, she directs some of us elsewhere. She points me in the direction of the self-checkouts.
“But I’ve got a lot more than fifteen items,” I protest.
“It’s okay,” she replies. “It won’t matter today.”
I comply, as I usually do when confronted by authority figures. As it happens, all Angela’s associates are busy, so she’s the one. I haven’t used her for several weeks, and she’s probably forgotten me. “Good morning, Angela,” I say. “It’s been a while. How’re you doing?”
She doesn’t reply, but the man using the checkout on my right eyes me suspiciously. I press Start on the screen and the familiar voice responds immediately. Please scan your items. I lift the soap powder from my trolley and wave the barcode in front of the screen. Beep.
I place the soap powder in one of the bags on my trolley, provoking an instant reaction. Please place your item in the bagging area. Doesn’t she realise that I’ll only have to move it later from there to my bag? I hesitate.
Please place your item in the bagging area.
She’s a little more strident this time, and I reluctantly obey, but I refuse to be bested by a mere machine. To demonstrate who’s in charge, I pick up a bottle of fruit juice and flash the barcode past the screen as fast as I can. She’s too quick for me. Beep.
We carry on for a while. Bread. Beep. More bread. Beep. Cheese. Beep. Soon the bagging area – it’s barely a foot square - is full, and I still have another dozen or more packages to go. I plonk one of my bags in the only spare space and start loading it up from the beeped collection. For a moment this seems to work, but Angela’s not going to let me get away with it.
Unexpected item in bagging area.
It hadn’t occurred to me that she had an embargo on shopping bags. “Don’t be
fatuous,” I reply. ‘It’s only a bag.’
Unexpected item in bagging area.
I’m stuck. There’s no room to unload the bag without stuff falling on the floor. And if I put anything back in the trolley, I’m sure to get the please-place-your item-in-the-bagging-area routine again. I stand there, unsure what to do.
UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA. The voice is shrill now, and it’s obvious
that she’s really annoyed.
I cast around for help. A checkout assistant comes to my aid. He looks sympathetic: maybe I’m not the only customer who gets the rough side of Angela’s tongue. He waves some kind of card in front of her screen, miraculously silencing her, and then rapidly fills my bag while she’s still dazed. This presents me with a chance to put thisbag in the trolley and start stacking the rest of my groceries in the bagging area.
Fat chance. I haven’t got the bag even halfway to the trolley before Angela pipes up
again.
Please place your item in the bagging area.
What you need, Angela, is a short course in time and motion studies. Don’t you realise that if I reverse course, I won’t have room for the things that I still have to scan and pack?
Is the bagging area some kind of quarantine area? Yes, that’s probably it. Once your packages arrive, they have to remain there in isolation for a fortnight. How ridiculous. I’ve no intention of hanging round here for the next fourteen days while my milk goes sour and the bread turns blue.
Please place your item in the bagging area. With a shrug, I obey. Otherwise I’ll never get out of here.
I persevere, scanning my items and placing them in quarantine. The pile continues to mount until it can no longer withstand gravity and begins to teeter. The laws of physics reassert themselves and the instant coffee falls on the floor, followed by the garlic. Lucky it wasn’t the eggs.
Angela takes no notice.
Mr Sympathetic reappears and helps me retrieve the spillage. Meanwhile, I’ve worked out that if I hold the quarantined stuff steady with my right hand, I can use my left to move the remaining items one by one from my trolley, past Angela, and onto the top of the heap. This gives me cramp in the right shoulder but it’s a modest price to pay for peace. I gasp with relief when I’m finally done. I stab Finish and Pay with a shaking forefinger. Angela stirs once more.
Select payment type.
Now she’s finished toying with me, she sounds bored. She whisks me through the payment formalities, and at last I can bag everything up without risking her further displeasure. She waits until I’ve almost finished before taking one last opportunity to let me know who’s in control.
Please take your items.
“For goodness sake, Angela, whaddya think I’m doing? Waiting for a bus?”
She doesn’t deign to answer, but I’m certain that somewhere deep inside her electronics, she’s wagging a finger at me.
“Goodbye, then. In all honesty, I can’t say that it’s been a pleasure.”
Thank you for shopping at New World.
In an undertone, she adds, See you next time, sucker
Angela – not Angie, and certainly not Ange - racks up the cost of your purchases and takes your money. She has a glass screen for reading barcodes and a platform for weighing your fruit and veg. She’s also equipped with various slots and other apertures for ingesting your cash and credit cards, and for giving change - when she feels like it. I wouldn’t call her difficult – let’s just say that she knows her own mind. I’ve heard her described as both capricious and inflexible, but I’d never dare say so in her hearing.
When Angela first joined the supermarket, I found her quite engaging. But the novelty gradually wore off, and we don’t see so much of each other now. I prefer to deal with someone who wears clothes and smiles occasionally. Besides, Angela and her colleagues only like to handle small quantities – 15 items or less, according to the sign, so my weekly stock-up is usually too much for her to manage.
This morning, I’ve arrived at the checkout area to find myself behind an unusually long line of shoppers, carts laden with unimaginable amounts of canned food, bottled water and toilet paper. I think of mediaeval warfare, and wonder if they’re taking prophylactic measures against an expected siege. While I’m engrossed in this reverie, the queue seems to have stalled. After ten minutes or so a uniformed assistant strolls up and surveys the assembly. Perhaps she’s a trainee traffic police person: by means of hand signals, she directs some of us elsewhere. She points me in the direction of the self-checkouts.
“But I’ve got a lot more than fifteen items,” I protest.
“It’s okay,” she replies. “It won’t matter today.”
I comply, as I usually do when confronted by authority figures. As it happens, all Angela’s associates are busy, so she’s the one. I haven’t used her for several weeks, and she’s probably forgotten me. “Good morning, Angela,” I say. “It’s been a while. How’re you doing?”
She doesn’t reply, but the man using the checkout on my right eyes me suspiciously. I press Start on the screen and the familiar voice responds immediately. Please scan your items. I lift the soap powder from my trolley and wave the barcode in front of the screen. Beep.
I place the soap powder in one of the bags on my trolley, provoking an instant reaction. Please place your item in the bagging area. Doesn’t she realise that I’ll only have to move it later from there to my bag? I hesitate.
Please place your item in the bagging area.
She’s a little more strident this time, and I reluctantly obey, but I refuse to be bested by a mere machine. To demonstrate who’s in charge, I pick up a bottle of fruit juice and flash the barcode past the screen as fast as I can. She’s too quick for me. Beep.
We carry on for a while. Bread. Beep. More bread. Beep. Cheese. Beep. Soon the bagging area – it’s barely a foot square - is full, and I still have another dozen or more packages to go. I plonk one of my bags in the only spare space and start loading it up from the beeped collection. For a moment this seems to work, but Angela’s not going to let me get away with it.
Unexpected item in bagging area.
It hadn’t occurred to me that she had an embargo on shopping bags. “Don’t be
fatuous,” I reply. ‘It’s only a bag.’
Unexpected item in bagging area.
I’m stuck. There’s no room to unload the bag without stuff falling on the floor. And if I put anything back in the trolley, I’m sure to get the please-place-your item-in-the-bagging-area routine again. I stand there, unsure what to do.
UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA. The voice is shrill now, and it’s obvious
that she’s really annoyed.
I cast around for help. A checkout assistant comes to my aid. He looks sympathetic: maybe I’m not the only customer who gets the rough side of Angela’s tongue. He waves some kind of card in front of her screen, miraculously silencing her, and then rapidly fills my bag while she’s still dazed. This presents me with a chance to put thisbag in the trolley and start stacking the rest of my groceries in the bagging area.
Fat chance. I haven’t got the bag even halfway to the trolley before Angela pipes up
again.
Please place your item in the bagging area.
What you need, Angela, is a short course in time and motion studies. Don’t you realise that if I reverse course, I won’t have room for the things that I still have to scan and pack?
Is the bagging area some kind of quarantine area? Yes, that’s probably it. Once your packages arrive, they have to remain there in isolation for a fortnight. How ridiculous. I’ve no intention of hanging round here for the next fourteen days while my milk goes sour and the bread turns blue.
Please place your item in the bagging area. With a shrug, I obey. Otherwise I’ll never get out of here.
I persevere, scanning my items and placing them in quarantine. The pile continues to mount until it can no longer withstand gravity and begins to teeter. The laws of physics reassert themselves and the instant coffee falls on the floor, followed by the garlic. Lucky it wasn’t the eggs.
Angela takes no notice.
Mr Sympathetic reappears and helps me retrieve the spillage. Meanwhile, I’ve worked out that if I hold the quarantined stuff steady with my right hand, I can use my left to move the remaining items one by one from my trolley, past Angela, and onto the top of the heap. This gives me cramp in the right shoulder but it’s a modest price to pay for peace. I gasp with relief when I’m finally done. I stab Finish and Pay with a shaking forefinger. Angela stirs once more.
Select payment type.
Now she’s finished toying with me, she sounds bored. She whisks me through the payment formalities, and at last I can bag everything up without risking her further displeasure. She waits until I’ve almost finished before taking one last opportunity to let me know who’s in control.
Please take your items.
“For goodness sake, Angela, whaddya think I’m doing? Waiting for a bus?”
She doesn’t deign to answer, but I’m certain that somewhere deep inside her electronics, she’s wagging a finger at me.
“Goodbye, then. In all honesty, I can’t say that it’s been a pleasure.”
Thank you for shopping at New World.
In an undertone, she adds, See you next time, sucker