Moving into the main aisles is like wading through a lukewarm soup of humanity. You’ll find the man who stands directly in the middle of the biscuit aisle, staring at Hobnobs like he’s reading a sacred text. You cannot move him. You must simply orbit him.
Then there is the ‘Trolley Racer’—usually a child who has stolen control from a weary parent. They treat the linoleum floor like the Monaco Grand Prix. You have to admire the commitment, even as they nearly T-bone your ankle with a trolley full of Value Pot Noodles.
My favourite part is the middle aisle—the ‘George at Asda’ section. You go in for milk, but you walk out with a faux-leather pouffe, a child’s dinosaur costume, and a set of gardening shears. It’s not your fault. The pouffe was on sale. It called to you.
Asda responds to rumours of coronavirus outbreak at Sheffield supermarket
The Great British Checkout Conundrum
Now, you face the ultimate test: the self-service checkouts. Remember when these were a novelty? Now they are a source of stress. The machine says “Unexpected item in bagging area,” and you feel personally attacked by a robot.
You wave your bag of carrots frantically, hoping the flashing red light stops. An assistant with the patience of a saint wanders over to press ‘override’. You smile sheepishly. “It’s never me,” you say, as if you’ve never used a checkout before. It’s always you.
