Then comes the final boss: the checkout queue. You have to pick your lane like you’re picking a horse at the races. The woman with a full trolley of weekly shop and a suspiciously quiet baby? Risky. The bloke with two items and a Ginsters? Usually a safe bet, unless he tries to pay with a jar of loose change. The checkout staff, bless them, are saints who can scan a cucumber while discussing the state of the weather and their sciatica. They’re the unsung philosophers of Sutton.
And you can’t forget the bag packing ballet. It’s a frantic dance of keeping the conveyor belt moving, the person behind you is breathing down your neck, and you’re trying to Tetris your items into bags that have mysteriously shrunk since you bought them. The self-checkout is a robotic judge that stares at you and says, “Unexpected item in bagging area” just to ruin your day. It’s personal.
Asda "disappointed" at comments over social distancing measures at
