26.5.12 Chaos at t'Co-op

The place is a disaster when it comes to functioning in any way that's likely to be beneficial to customers.  The narrow aisle is commonly littered with re-stocking trolleys, and a couple of staff achieving very little, very slowly.  At the top end of the small shop is where the aisle then narrows, as a rack of some-or-other shit is displaying crumpets at 3p off if you buy seventeen of the cunts!  Round the bend (literally) you hit freezer country (or a cunt of a freezer if you're pushed wide by the rack of tea bags that cost only £6.48 for 40).  The aisle with the freezers down the far side was wide, and remained so until the refurbishment two years ago, when a nob decided there was room enough to display baskets, racks and stacks of shite in the middle.  Now, the aisle is split down the middle by these useless displays that provide space either side equivalent to the width of one trolley.  Terraced roads often suffer from a similar issue - there's enough room for one vehicle, but it's a long way to the end of a run of parked cars, and anything coming the other way will be met head on.

I negotiated the overpiced beer, the freezer cabinets were inspected for signs of something on offer (necessary because the twats often put the same stuff in more than one place, so it's not always sold out if the shelf is empty - today, both shelves, eight feet apart, were empty).  I was passed by a very tall man with a low, flat, small trolley speeding towards the checkouts.  I let him pass, and then picked up my newspaper.  Just as I got to the checkouts, a small woman beat me to the queue.  Actually, I am lying, she was not small.  She was very short, yes, about 4'10" but was eaily the same around the girth.  I have not often been beaten to a place in the queue by a ball, but she didn't roll.  It's not true to say she got there by fair means, though, as she approached from the side (rather than 'side on' which would of course have been impossible, being spherical).

There were two tills in operation, this being a Saturday morning at 9am.  Heaven forbid any extra input at peak time would be sanctioned at the Cunt-op.  The one normal checkout woman was serving just one lady (who was twice the size of the one in front of me) and I recognised her from the road-block that arose a few minutes earlier when she was in aisle number one.  I was queuing for the till at the kiosk, because I wanted a lottery ticket, otherwise I'd have stood behind the Arc de Triomphe (although she wasn't French - no baguettes in her trolley!).  Instead, I had to wait behind the Spacehopper.  She was in turn behind Mr Speedy, whom I'd let pass just moments earlier.  He had poured his purchases on to the counter, ready for scanning.  At the checkout alongside me, the large monument was paying for her goods, and nobody was behind her. 

Eventually the last item was scanned by the kiosk till operator, and I expected Mr Speedy to ask for a lottery ticket, or some shit linked to the Paypoint system, for there could be no other reason for him to have chosen the kiosk till.  But no, the cunt needed no ticket, and should have been in the other line with his twenty or more loose items, and his fucking credit card.

"Anyone want to come to this till?" came the the feeble cry from three feet away, the noise directed upwards, and dispersed by reflection off the ceiling rather than by the non-existent fan in the overly warm shop.  Spacehopper needed the kiosk facilities (to an extent that I was not yet aware of) and I needed a lottery ticket.  Behind me the two other shoppers clearly had similar needs, as none of us moved sideways.  I considered that the appropriate action would have been for the checkout woman to stand at the other till in the kiosk, and be of service to shoppers.  Instead, she chose to help Spacehopper pack a few items into bags.  Then, after nine seconds of input, she said: "Call me if you need me" to her kiosk colleague, and sauntered off to line up the spring onions, or place wire baskets at overtaking points in the small store. 

I stood, and despaired, both in terms of my predicament, and at the shape before me.  I mused about grabbing her ears, sitting on her back, and bouncing down the street, but decided that the fat, very short, round woman resembling a pasty-looking version of the classic orange Spacehopper would most likely sue me.  I watched and waited.  Elsewhere in the vicinity, paint dried, grass grew green and ASBOs were handed out.  Eventually the last item of shopping was scanned, but that was not the end of things.  No, she produced a purse - well, a black version of a cuntin' spice rack, there were so many compartments. [Hmmm, I've just realised that Schwartz makes spices, and is German for 'black', the colour of her wallet which was the size of a spice rack - how odd!]  She had plastic for swiping, and asked for shit to do with Gas, Electric and Phone.  Pissing Paypoint transactions are testing the nation's patience.  Behind me, the queue had grown.  There were now five customers behind me. 

Next on the agenda was the search for the Dividend card.  She checked her spice rack, but it was nowhere to be found.  I was pleased as hell not to have to witness her checking her other rack - ie. the sliver of space between two squashed doughballs - and thank got she'd not seen (or taken a hint from) the book and film Papillion, which might have given her the idea of hinding things up her arse for safe keeping.  The transaction via credit card was completed without points being awarded to her loyalty card, although her receipt would "contain details for her to make a call to an 0800 number withing seven days" . . . . . yawn . . . . arghh.

As if by magic, the basket-mover / basket-case appeared, refreshed from inhaling spring onion fumes, and went over to the other kiosk till.  "Would you like to move along?"  What fucking possessed her to make that a question I do not know.  I picked my few things up and went to her till, and wondered what she'd look like trapped inside a wire basket.  I bagged my purchases, and paid cash, so that I actually exited the shop just ahead of the Spacehopper.  After I'd crossed the road, I looked back and saw Spacehopper and L'Arc de Triomphe standing together by the lights on the other side; they were together!

I walked into the kitchen and boiled the kettle, dismissing the thought of a beer at 9.15am.  How can it be so much work to buy a newspaper, a pizza, milk and a lottery ticket?

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